


Let's Repeat Our Chorus Triumphantly

by coloursflyaway



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Up, Mutual Pining, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: Loving a human means losing them eventually, but Jaskier will always be there to guide Geralt home.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 99
Kudos: 213





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All the song lyrics that are not from the show come from the books, I wouldn't subject anyone to my attempts to poetry.  
> Also, there's a few very unsubtle nods to the game, because I love it and I absolutely couldn't help myself.

_“Where to now, then?”, Jaskier asks, excitement so very obvious in his voice, as if someone had caught the sun’s light in a bottle and offered it to the bard to drink. He’s a fool for following Geralt in the first place, even more of one for not having left already. Even a bard, even someone as hopelessly cheerful, as untainted by the world as Jaskier is, should know that the Path is dangerous, that Geralt is. And yet, he’s still here, not dissuaded by the insults Geralt throws at him, by the silence, the long marches and the sparse food.  
If Geralt allowed it to be, it could be intriguing. _

_He hums in response, not wanting to say more, because where Jaskier goes is none of his concern, but the bard pouts next to him, brandishing his lute like a weapon, and for once, Geralt gives in.  
“Lindenvale”, he tells Jaskier and watches his face light up once more, bright with imagined possibility. “There’s a contract for a couple of drowners. Doesn’t pay much, but enough for a night in an inn.”  
“Drowners, huh? Ghastly blue things, bulging eyes, those ones?”  
“Hm.”  
“Hardly the monsters great ballads are sung about”, Jaskier comments, not quite complains, but strums his lute anyway, looking at Geralt for second almost wistfully before he turns his eyes back to the road ahead. “But don’t worry, my dear Witcher, I will do my very best to change that.”_

He hears the melody drifting through a window, soft like a summer’s breeze, as familiar as his own heartbeat and immeasurably more loved. Weeks have passed since he last heard it; they do not sing his songs as frequently anymore, too much time has passed. _So much time_.  
And yet, here in Lindenvale, the tune drifts through the streets, and Geralt stops, because there is nothing else he could do. There’s a griffin’s head tied to Roach’s saddle, ready to be swapped for coin, but he hoists his old, aching limbs off his mare and leads her closer, ever closer, to the source of the music. It’s sweet and longing and Geralt has felt old so often, but never as much as he does whenever he hears those tunes; at the same time, he never feels more alive.

Lindenvale has grown since they passed through it together, has gained an inn and three taverns, more merchants and a silk trader that Geralt cannot set foot in fear of blues and purples and deep, deep reds. And yet, he finds his way easily, every note making his heart sing, his heart ache, even before a voice joins the lute. When it does, it’s a young woman singing, and secretly, Geralt is glad for it; it would never be a competition, and yet it’s easier to try and not compare the singer’s voice to the one he knows by heart when it’s higher, clearer, possesses not the smoothness of velvet and honeyed wine, but instead the clarity of birdsong.

“ _O’er glistening roofs, you float_ ” the woman sings, and Geralt turns a corner to find himself in front of another inn, one that even he didn’t know existed. “ _Through lily-strewn rivers, you dive…_ ”  
Her emphasis is wrong, her fingers a little to clumsy for her instrument, but it matters not, Geralt still feels the words vibrate through his bones, his flesh, his heart. Hears them sung by another, pensive and bathed in sunlight, a lifetime before. Sees pink lips curl around a quill, which stains them grey, dark lashes pensively fan across cornflower eyes, brown hair that shimmers silver around the temples, as if a spider had caught him in his web.

“ _Yet one day, I will know your truths…_ ”, the woman sings and Geralt pushes the door to the inn open, finds it cosy and warm and utterly forgettable. The singer doesn’t seem to notice her new audience, and he is glad for it, takes in her chestnut hair and tan skin, the green dress she’s wearing and _aches_ so fiercely that he almost expects his tattered knees to buckle. _“…if only I am still alive…_ ”

Because that’s it.  
That’s the one wound he carries that even his mutations are unable to heal, even if they have carried him through everything else, the one blow that ruined him and yet wasn’t merciful enough to let him die.  
Because it’s been sixty-four years since Jaskier died, quietly and gently and in Geralt’s arms.

_“I am certain you have heard it before”, Jaskier tells him, mere months after they have met, his eyes so blue that Geralt cannot look away, even though he desperately wants to. “But you’re a bit of an arsehole.”  
There is no venom in his voice, if anything, he looks amused, but Geralt still bristles internally, unsure why the opinion of a bard would matter anything at all, but somehow, it does.  
“Hm.”  
Jaskier cocks his head, then chuckles, a bright, joyful sound that seems to echo somewhere between Geralt’s ribs, the vast, empty space of his chest.  
“Oh no, you don’t have to worry”, Jaskier tells Geralt, just as if he already knew how to read him. “I like that about you.”  
And he smiles, and somehow, even that matters._

The last notes fade, sweet and familiar and taking another piece of Geralt’s heart with them; he lets them, gladly. After all, it’s not like he needs it any longer.  
In front of him, a tankard of ale is waiting, ordered more out of politeness, out of habit than want, because Geralt has stopped to try and drink his pain away more than forty years ago. Still, he takes a gulp, then another, before he gets up and walks over to the young singer, who is fiddling with the strings of her lute, brows drawn together in displeasure. She looks up at him anyway, and her eyes are blue. Not the right shade, although even Geralt isn’t sure which one it would be anymore, but they are blue nonetheless, and for a moment, Geralt considers turning back, because he doesn’t know if he can speak.

“Yes?”, she prompts when he doesn’t, raises an eyebrow inquisitively. She’s pretty without being stunning, but there’s a light in her blue, blue eyes that makes it easy to forget about it. “Do you need something?”  
He does, but nothing she can give him; nonetheless, Geralt does his best to smile a little, because he knows that is what Jaskier would have done.  
“Yes”, he tells her, and knows that the rest of the pain is still etched into his words, won’t go away for hours. “I wanted to ask – do you know more of his songs? Any of them, it doesn’t matter which. It’s just, it has been too long since I last heard them.”

Although it’s been decades since Jaskier passed, Geralt cannot force his name from his lips, fears it would slice them to shreds, but the singer seems to understand what he means anyway. She looks confused, but nods slowly, eyes narrowing.  
“…I do. There’s that one about the Witcher, I know that fairly well. I can play it, if you want.”  
Geralt doesn’t tell her that her description hardly narrows it down, Jaskier has written countless songs about Witchers, about him and Lambert and Vesemir and Eskel and far, far later, about Ciri, too, instead he just nods, tries to give her another smile, but fails. There are no tears, because he has already shed more of them than one lifetime could permit, but Geralt can still feel his throat go tight, the roof of his mouth start to hurt, even if his eyes stay dry.  
He knows what song she means.

“I’d appreciate it”, he says instead, heart so swollen in his chest that it is hard to breathe. “Thank you.”

_“Thank you”, Jaskier says softly as they walk towards the castle, Geralt dressed in black silk that crinkles with every step he takes, driving him slowly insane. “I know you didn’t want to come, even if there is food and beer and women. I really appreciate it.”  
It’s not like the bard to talk like this, sound so honest, so sincere, and despite himself, it makes Geralt turn to look at him. The same thing happened earlier this evening, Jaskier crouching in front of his bathtub, his expression so unguarded that Geralt had wondered if the bard wanted him to read a secret in his eyes, his voice so soft when he muttered, “_And yet, here we are _.”_

_He doesn’t look quite the same now, but there is still something in his gaze that Geralt thinks he could decipher, if he only tried hard enough.  
“Don’t mention it”, he answers, keeping his voice low, monotone and looks away so whatever Jaskier is hiding can stay hidden. “Just make sure I don’t have to leave this mess sober.”  
Jaskier chuckles and there is an edge to even his voice, but before Geralt can decide if he wants to figure it out after all, the bard puts a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment.  
“Of course, my dear Witcher. Whatever you want.”_

She sings and Geralt listens, sees Jaskier walk in front of him, hair tousled in the wind, a nuisance he wasn’t able to get of rid of, yet.  
Sees Jaskier, leaning against a table and singing along with the crowd, the stench of selkiemore guts on his tongue, the bard’s soft eyes in his mind.  
Sees Jaskier standing on a table, wobbling dangerously as he tries to conduct the crowd around him as they sing, a tankard of ale in his hand and his smile so bright it put every celestial body to shame, and his body warm in Geralt’s arms later, when he had slipped and the Witcher had caught him mid-air.  
Sees Jaskier, his hair as silver as Geralt’s, but his smile so much brighter, playing his lute in their favourite tavern in Oxenfurt because the barmaid had asked for it so nicely.

It’s impossible to look at her, so Geralt doesn’t try, instead keeps his eyes on the rough surface of the table, traces the lines in the wood with his gaze while he listens to Jaskier’s words, sung by the wrong person, always the wrong person.  
“ _He’s a friend of humanity, so give him the rest-_ ”, she sings, and Geralt sees Jaskier, every version of him so clearly that he can almost trick himself into thinking the bard will be there when he looks up again. “ _That’s my epic tale, our champion prevailed, defeated the villain…_ ”

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare to, but cannot help but to wish that his tears had not yet dried up so he could shed them again.

_Geralt doesn’t watch Jaskier leave, because even if he is so angry he can feel himself tremble with it, he knows that those would be memories he wouldn’t know how to get rid of again. Everything seems to be crumbling around him and he doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know how to cope, but he knows how to lash out, how to hurt.  
And hurt he did, he doesn’t need to watch Jaskier to know that.  
Maybe it’s better this way, because it would have happened sooner or later, Geralt knows it, because he knows humans and he knows himself.  
Maybe it’s better if Jaskier leaves before Geralt has figured out what the bard hides behind the blue of his eyes. _

Leaving the tavern is more difficult than Geralt would have thought, as if Jaskier’s melodies had ingrained themselves in the walls to make them matter, but there is still a reward to be collected, and even if Geralt wishes it was different, as long as he continues to breathe, he needs the money. The singer’s eyes follow him as he leaves, blue and bright and beautiful.

_Time has passed, but it seems it hasn’t changed a thing. Geralt is tired, so tired that he can feel it in his bones, his very soul. And yet, it only takes one look at Jaskier’s face for him to forget how coming here, every step had felt like walking a mile.  
He looks different and yet the same, blue eyes and brown hair, lips that should be smiling, but are pressed together in a thin line although Jaskier is surrounded by people, by ale, by music. The tavern is everything he should want and yet Jaskier looks broken, battered, and Geralt hates himself for causing this, hates himself for still feeling relief flood through him, just because he’s in the bard’s presence again. _

_It had been difficult to admit at first, but oh, he has missed Jaskier, and missed him terribly; yet, it might be the hardest thing he has ever done to cross the room. Their surroundings are loud, people talking and drinking, but Geralt doesn’t even make it half the way before Jaskier looks up and directly at him, as if it was him with the mutated senses, not Geralt. For a second he seems to be frozen in time, but then his eyes widen, his lips part with a silent gasp that Geralt can nonetheless hear across the chatter, the clanking of tankards. And Geralt is lost, because there's pain written still on Jaskier's face, inked into the blue of his eyes, and Geralt_ feels _.  
For years, oh so many of them, he has refused to name it, that tightening of his chest, the breathlessness, the warmth that looking at Jaskier brings, but now the feeling names itself, declares itself to be love and Geralt cannot do more than nod mutely, and agree._

_"Jaskier", he rasps out and hopes that the bard's human ears won't pick up on what his hear so clearly: the tightening of his chest, the breathlessness, the warmth. Everything around them seems to fall away, as easy as raindrops would; how could it dare to matter when Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier in such a long time, when he has missed him so fiercely that he can still feel the remnants of pain gripping his heart, clouding his vision.  
He had been nervous coming here, but there is no room left for it now, no need, because there is pain on Jaskier’s face, and pain means there is still feeling left. And Jaskier has always been far too good a person to refuse forgiveness. _

_Geralt’s feet cross the remaining distance without him commanding them to, stop when Jaskier is so close that, if he dared to, Geralt could reach out and touch him. He doesn’t, but not for lack of wanting to.  
“Jaskier”, he repeats, just because the name feels right on his lips, because it’s been so long since he has uttered it. The bard’s companions are watching them, but it matters little when Geralt is back in the one home he thinks he has found, within Jaskier’s sight. “Forgive me. I meant none of it, not even in my weakest moment. It doesn’t make it right, and I know I do not deserve it, but please, forgive me nonetheless.”_

_After the way Geralt has treated him, Jaskier would deserve far more, an apology only a poet could craft, but this is all he has to offer, for better or for worse, and after all the time they spent together, Geralt trusts Jaskier to know as much. Trusts him with every fibre of his being, trusts him against every bit of training they tried to ingrain in him, trusts him because it’s Jaskier and he has never done anything but earn it._

_A few moments pass, in which Geralt doesn’t allow himself to doubt, because Jaskier’s eye glisten blue and wet in the light of the fireplace, then Jaskier’s head jerks to the side, he wipes his eyes and there’s a sound coming from him that is as close to a sob as Geralt has ever heard, rich with emotion, slick with tears. But when he looks up, there’s a smile on his face, brighter still than the ones Geralt can remember, his cheeks are flushed, and Geralt wants nothing but to hold him, feel how warm his skin is when it presses against the Witcher’s.  
“Of course, I do”, Jaskier answers softly, and his voice is still half sob, half laugh, his eyes so wild and happy they take Geralt’s breath away. “You know I do. I was just waiting for you to ask me to.”_

_And he reaches out across the distance between them to take one of Geralt’s hands in his, holding it tightly for just a moment.  
Geralt’s skin burns for the rest of the night._

Roach is waiting outside for him, just as reliable as her predecessors were, nudges Geralt’s hand as he unties her as if she can feel something is wrong. This version of Roach didn’t know Jaskier, just like the one before didn’t and the thought is enough for Geralt’s overfull, empty heart to clench painfully.  
“Come on”, he tells her and wraps the reins around his hand; the merchant who hired him doesn’t live far away, so he doesn’t bother to mount the mare, just leads her through dusty, unfamiliar streets until they reach the small house. It’s seen better days, Geralt can still make out cracked white paint under the grime as he leaves Roach outside, taking the trophy with him, the bag he stored it in wet with blood and Roach’s sweat.  
The sturdy oak door underneath the merchant’s sign seems out of place on such a house, or in Lindenvale in general. _Perhaps it agrees_ , Geralt can hear Jaskier tease as he pushes it open to reveal the small shop and he cannot keep the smile from tugging at his lips. Jaskier would love it, knowing that Geralt can still hear his voice so many decades later, that he talked enough for his words not to only last his, but Geralt’s lifetime.

“Killed your griffin”, he tells the shopkeeper when the older man doesn’t look up immediately, crosses the distance between them quickly; he can see bolts of fabric in the back of the room, white and green and cornflower blue. The faster he can leave again, the better.  
He drops the soiled bag onto the counter, undoubtedly ruining the papers the merchant was working on, but Geralt is too old, has seen too many people bluster and grumble and rail to care any longer. This merchant doesn’t even seem inclined to do that, only looks down at the trophy with shock painted across his face for a few moments, before raising his eyes to meet Geralt’s.  
They are brown and scared and Geralt breathes a sigh of relief.

“….yes, yes, of course, thank you, Master Witcher, certainly – “, he stutters out, pale around the nose as if he has never seen blood before. He very well might not have, but as long as he doesn’t faint, Geralt cannot bring himself to care, not when the echo of Jaskier’s ballad is still ringing in his ears.  
The merchant rummages through a drawer for a few seconds before retrieving a pouch of coins, sufficiently heavy for Geralt not to count them after the man has handed it to him. It should be enough for a few nights in an inn, food and drink and some supplies, and it has been so, so long since Geralt asked for any more.

He grunts in the merchant’s direction, turns to leave, but a timid voice stops him, fragile and with a hint of desperation clinging to words.  
“What – what am I supposed to do with _this_?”  
And Geralt suddenly is so, so tired. Of the same people, the same questions, the same fear and shock and disgust and loathing, the same towns and the same monsters, the same sun rising and setting again, illuminating everything Geralt has already seen and isn’t able to leave behind  
“I don’t know”, he growls, far more vicious than intended and yet not able to hold himself back. “Sell it, burn it, throw it out for all I care. It’s just meat and bones, nothing more and nothing less than any of us.”

_When Geralt wakes, it’s still early, the morning sun only just sending out her first rays of light into a world that seems lighter than usual, even without it. It’s only been a few weeks since Jaskier allowed Geralt back into his life, and up until now, the novelty of it has not yet worn off.  
It seems to tinge every second of the day, makes steps lighter, words come easier and Geralt’s heart ache in the most pleasant way every time he looks over and finds Jaskier smiling. _

_They’ve gone west for no reason at all, but although money is tight, it’s the best Geralt has felt in what seems like an eternity. And the lack of funds brings one thing Geralt has never before been able to truly appreciate, it seems. Brings nights camped out in the wilderness in which Jaskier sits close to him to soak up the fire’s warmth, sings soft songs that are not for a crowd, but only for Geralt’s ears, wakes up beside him, dark lashes fluttering open like a butterfly’s tender wings._

_If he hadn’t yet accepted the way his feelings have changed, Geralt thinks he would have to do so now, because there is a tenderness gripping his heart when he looks at Jaskier which he hasn’t felt with anyone before, not with Triss, not even with Yennefer, who he thought for so long he loved. But Jaskier is different, bold where Yen was harsh, gentle where she was fierce, sweet where she was forced to be bitter.  
Sometimes, Geralt still thinks of her, still misses her, but if so, then for her wit and her determination, not her kisses. _

_The sun is creeping up the sky, turning it pink and golden; it won’t take long until it wakes Jaskier, so Geralt uses the little time he still has to allow himself to watch Jaskier sleep and to finally be happy._

Since it’s only midday, Geralt knows he could go on, find a new contract in a new village, help people, like Jaskier asked him to all those years ago, but he cannot bring himself to leave, not when there is a chance to hear his bard’s music again. So instead, he leads Roach to nearest inn, pats her chestnut fur and listens to her whinny softly.  
She’s getting older too, her mane losing its shine and her stamina fading, but Geralt still loves her dearly, can’t imagine trading her for a younger mare. Hopes deep down that this time, it’ll be Roach who loses her rider and not the other way around.

The inn is small, but the stables where he leaves Roach are clean enough, a young boy promising to take care of her for a few orens, and there is a room left for him inside. It’s furniture is sparse, a bed, a small table and a water basin, but it’s more than enough for Geralt. He’s used to less, to makeshift camps on the side of the road, to the cold of Kaer Morhen, to the emptiness of their house and bed and garden in Novigrad after Jaskier had passed.  
So he drops his bags on the table and starts to take off the armour, his muscles crying out their gratitude; it’s been days since he allowed himself rest for more than a few hours and even his mutated body isn’t as spry as it used to be, aching from old wounds and new, aching most of all because Geralt has long since stopped taking care of it.

_They stumble into the room, Geralt’s arm slung across Jaskier’s shoulder so he can keep himself steady, the bard’s hands warm as he helps him sit down onto the bed. There’s blood staining his palms, bright red on pale skin, and Geralt wonders for a short, delirious moment if Jaskier would allow him to kiss it away.  
“I’m not sure if I should scold you or patch you up first”, Jaskier grumbles, even as he starts to pull off Geralt’s armour piece by piece, by now as familiar with the buckles and clasps as the Witcher is himself. But there is panic hidden in his scent, sharp and metallic, and Geralt would do anything to soothe him. “What a silly thing to do, letting that slyzard get so close to you. How did you even make it this long, if something so – so hideous gets close enough to you to do this. Couldn’t you just use your pretty fingers to make your pretty signs and not get sliced apart by that disgusting phallus with wings?”_

_Geralt can’t help but chuckle, regretting it just a moment later when the motion aggravates the wound on his chest, the one on his ribs. It was a hideous thing, Jaskier was right, with a tail that had whipped the sword right out of his hands, the breath from his lungs. But -  
“It was coming right at you, Jaskier”, he explains quietly, trying not to wince when Jaskier removes his breastplate, then the tattered shirt he wears underneath. “It would have torn you to shreds, I couldn’t let that happen.”  
The hands inspecting his chest falter in their rhythm as Jaskier looks up from where he is kneeling in front of Geralt, something tender hidden in the blue of his eyes, something else that Geralt now wants to decipher more than anything else but hasn’t managed yet. Jaskier’s fingers trail idly across his collarbone, far away from the actual wound but still enough to make Geralt shiver. _

_“I appreciate the sentiment, believe me, my dear Witcher, I do”, he says softly, and his fingers have not yet stopped moving across Geralt’s skin. “But by now you should know that if anything were to happen to you, it would do just the same.”_

He calls for a bath to soothe his ever aching muscles, because that is what Jaskier would have done, even if, without someone by his side to work out the kinks in his back, someone to press soft fingers into the tense mess of scars that covers his entire body, the relief will fade quickly. The bath doesn’t take long to come, two boys, carrying a large tub between them, that will still only just fit Geralt’s body. They’re followed by another two girls, pretty things that steal looks at Geralt’s form as they empty jug after jug of water into the bath until it is full, steam filling the small room until the air feels stifling. Fleetingly, Geralt hopes that what they saw was no monster, but a man, yet the thought vanishes and leaves no trace of its existence behind.

Instead of hoping, Geralt undresses and sinks into the bath, which should smell like chamomile and lavender, but instead has no scent at all. Still, the heat is pleasant, chases away some of the tension in his limbs, the strain in his neck and the sheen of sweat and blood that has collected on his skin since he started hunting the griffin. It was an easy enough beast to slay, yet enough to inflict scratches, which smart in the water, even if in the most pleasant of ways.  
He takes a deep breath, letting the steam feel his lungs until it feels like he is drowning in it, then dunks his head under water until he can believe it.

_As much as Geralt teases Jaskier about his oils, his bathing salts, it’s hard to pretend that he doesn’t enjoy them now as the whole room smells of herbs and flowers as he steps into it. The scent must be a remnant of the bath Jaskier had ordered just before Geralt had left to stock up on supplies, on dried meat, alcohest and grease for the bard’s beloved lute. It’s not the one he usually uses, Geralt notices, it’s not as sweet, but carries a hint of tartness, the scent of fool’s parsley and ranogrin.  
And Jaskier doesn’t look like he usually does either, because Geralt doesn’t find him humming under his breath or plucking away on his lute, doesn’t find him spread out on the bed with a quill in his hand and dark ink stains on his fingertips. Instead, Jaskier is sitting on the mattress, his back against the wall and his skin still flushed from the hot water, the steam that still lingers in the air. He’s not wearing his doublet, his chemise half tucked into his breeches, and he looks beautiful, looks soft, looks like everything Geralt wants to look at for the rest of his days. _

_But at the same time, he looks more pensive than Geralt is used to, elegant brows drawn together as he studies the hands he has clasped in his lap, quite as if he held in them a mystery he can’t begin to solve. Even to look up at Geralt takes him a few moments, and while that doesn’t hurt, it might sting a little.  
“Jaskier?”, he asks, setting aside his bag and stepping closer to the bed, the bard’s cornflower eyes finally on him, following his steps. “What’s the matter?”_

_What Geralt expects is that one of the stable hands had insulted his singing, or a maid had rebuffed advances that he truly had meant, a small reason, easily fixed with ale and a good night’s rest, but instead Jaskier slowly blinks, then fixes his eyes– and by Melitele, how are they so blue, so bright even if Jaskier is distraught? – on Geralt, a new determination seeping into the furrows of his brow, into the curve of his pink mouth.  
“What are we to each other, Geralt?”, he asks and there is a shiver in his voice that Geralt hears but cannot understand. _

_He cannot understand the question either and maybe it’s that what causes his chest to constrict painfully, his heart turn to ice within it, because whatever is hidden behind those word, it_ matters _to Jaskier and Geralt doesn’t know the right answer. Doesn’t know what will happen if he gives the wrong one._

_Gingerly, he steps forward, feeling like he is crossing a river on the thinnest ice, only stops when he’s so close that he could touch Jaskier, if he only had the courage to do so.  
“What do you mean? We are… friends. Are we not?”  
It is the first time he says it out-loud, but surely, Jaskier must know already. After all, Geralt has stopped denying it years ago, has listened to his songs and shared his camp, his food, his _life _with Jaskier. He has always been better with actions than words, meant_ I care for you _every time he allowed Jaskier to ride on Roach when his feet were aching but the next town too far away, meant_ Don’t leave me _every time he let Jaskier pick their next destination, was trying to say_ I love you _with every look, every touch, every breath. Maybe it wasn’t enough, he thinks, and it strikes fear in his heart unlike any monster could._

_“That I know”, Jaskier replies, his eyes softening but the resolve is still there, hidden behind shining eyes; for a moment, Geralt breathes a bit more easily. “But it’s not what I mean.”  
“What then? You’re not making sense.”  
“How long have we known each other?”, Jaskier, asks, leaning forward, but doesn’t give Geralt a chance to answer. “Decades. And we travelled many of those years together, so I would never have wanted to disturb our relationship by asking for something you couldn’t give, and yet I cannot help but wonder… it used to be that we travelled together for a few months, then split and met up again when the time for it was right, but think of the last time we parted. It’s been years, I think. You even spent the last winter with me in Oxenfurt instead of Kaer Morhen, although I know you hate the city.”_

_Jaskier laughs softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and he is right, Geralt hates the city and yet hated the thought of leaving his bard even more. For a moment, he wants to say something, but Jaskier isn’t finished.  
“You have seen me at my best and at my worst”, he continues, and his voice is soft, contemplative. “When I was successful and when I had failed, when I got injured, rejected, thrown aside, and when I was happy, silly, drunk with love or ale or a crowd’s adoration. And yet, it seems that you haven’t tired of me. You let me dress your wounds, wash your hair, keep you company in _your _worst moments, in your best.”_

_He takes a deep breath and something deep inside of Geralt aches with the need to hold him, trembles with fear because he still doesn’t know where Jaskier wants to take him with those sweet words that feel like they could be either a beginning or an end. But he can’t, not yet, maybe not ever.  
“I hope-”, Jaskier starts once more, looks up at him, and this is it, this is where everything will change, Geralt can feel it, a tension crackling through the air. “I hope you know that I would never expect anything from you that you didn’t want to give. And I hope that, if you don’t reciprocate what I feel for you, that it doesn’t change the friendship we have. But I just – I can’t help but hope, because of the way you sometimes look at me, and touch me, and because you let me say all this without interrupting me once… Geralt, tell me, is there really nothing but friendship between us?”_

He stays in the bath until the water has gone cold, then gets out to dress in the same shirt and breeches as before, feels the rough material scratch at his skin as if to ask him to spend the rest of his days submerged in water and memory. The light has changed since Geralt has last looked outside, midday giving way to a sunny afternoon.  
The bed seems to be calling out to him, a sweet siren song, and he could stay here, sleep until the next morning, but his herb supplies are running low, his whetstones almost ground to dust. And there is another song, ingrained in every of his cells, that draws him back to the tavern, back to the singer’s too-high voice and inept fingers. It’s the one temptation Geralt can’t withstand, even if it’s no longer his siren who weaves the tunes.  
So, he leaves the room behind and pretends he can smell ranogrin, fool’s parsley and the saccharine scent of love.


	2. Chapter 2

_It takes Geralt what feels like eons until he has understood Jaskier’ meaning; yet when he does, he’s convinced he must be mistaken.  
Still, he breathes out the bard’s dear name and watches Jaskier straighten, steel himself for what is yet to come, blue eyes darkening but never losing their resolve.  
“You can’t want me”, he finally says, trying to make sense of what cannot be and failing time and time again.  
“Why not?”  
“Why would you? You could have anyone, no matter how rich, how fair, how sweet.”  
“And yet, it’s you.” There’s a fierceness to Jaskier’s words, a desperation, and yet a smile tugs on his lips, as fond as Geralt has ever seen. “Out of all of them, it’s you. And it has been you for decades, so don’t dare to imply that my affections could be fleeting.”  
“I never would.”_

_And it’s the truth, because if Jaskier loves, he loves fully, loves passionately, and Geralt would never insult him by implying otherwise, even if Jaskier’s words sound wrong to his ears. Too dream-like, too perfect, too much like, if Geralt allowed them to be true, they would burn him to ashes with happiness.  
Never in a thousand years would he have allowed himself to consider that Jaskier could return his feelings, wouldn’t have dared to act on them if it had been the only thing to save him from certain destruction, wouldn’t have wanted to taint someone as sweetly hopeful and desperately romantic as Jaskier with the knowledge of his love. He’s not fragile, and yet Geralt won’t ever stop being afraid of breaking him.  
And yet, Jaskier is sitting in front of him, stronger than Geralt could ever be, watching him with eyes that burn with a hope so bright it ignites an ember in Geralt’s too-old, too-twisted heart, his heart beating as fast as a lark’s, his fingers clenched around the covers as if he has to keep himself from flying. _

_“By Melitele’s tits, say_ something _, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice tears him away from his thoughts, from the blossoming, unfamiliar hope in his chest, because Jaskier sounds like he’s begging, a desperation in his voice that Geralt never wants to hear again. “Or, if you have no words left, then_ do something _. Kiss me or send me away, but don’t just stand there and look at me like –“_

_He doesn’t get further, because he’s right, there are no words left in Geralt’s mind, not when Jaskier looks at him like that, when he sounds… when he sounds like he means it.  
His fingers move on their own volition, it seems, because Jaskier has asked him to, and Melitele knows, it’s not as if Geralt hasn’t dreamt of it, night after night for what feels like eternity. Without thinking, Geralt grabs him by the sheer chemise he wears and pulls him up from the mattress, fingertips brushing against soft skin, and there is no force in this world that could stop Geralt now.  
He kisses Jaskier with everything he has, puts every last bit of love, of devotion into the slide of his lips, into the touch of his second hand when it comes up to cup Jaskier’s face, the drag of his thumb across the bard’s chin.  
Even if Geralt doesn’t know how Jaskier could want him, as long as he does, Geralt will make sure he knows that he is loved in return. _

_It takes seconds or years for Jaskier to respond, to arch into Geralt’s touch, push closer, kiss him back with a passion that forces the air from the Witcher’s lungs. Instead, it fills every empty crevice of Geralt’s chest with golden-bright happiness, turns quiet pain into elation and acceptance into hope.  
Jaskier’s fingers thread themselves into his hair, pull him closer and allow Geralt to breathe again; when he does, he smells ranogrin and fool’s parsley and sweetness of Jaskier in his arms. _

Instead of visiting the merchant that requested his services, Geralt searches for another and finds a small shop, half hidden in one of the many streets. It’s as shabby as the other one, paint peeling and the windows turbid, the door creaking under its own weight as it swings open, revealing a room that seems to be made of shelves and shelves alone, each of them containing a myriad of different jars and boxes, an explosion of mayhem.  
Still, Geralt steps inside; they might not have everything he needs, but at least there are no bolts of silk to be seen, no velvet and brocade and lace. He finds a counter at the back, a boy of maybe thirteen years behind it, head resting on his crossed arms, until Geralt drops his coin pouch down next to his head.

He shoots up, dark eyes sleep, but a sheepish smile on his lips, revealing a missing front tooth and too much cheek to be taken seriously.  
“I’m sorry, I’m up, what can I do for you?”, he splutters, a slight lips softening the words as they drop from his mouth, and Geralt has had a soft spot for children that are too bright and not afraid enough for their own good ever since he found Ciri in the forest. So, he tries to smile and must succeed somewhat, because the boy doesn’t recoil when he sees that Geralt’s eyes are amber, that his face is riddled with scars. Instead, he leans closer, intrigue written across a round face.

“I need some herbs”, Geralt tells the boy, unsure if he hears what he is saying. “And a whet stone.”  
“You’re a Witcher, aren’t you?”, he gets as an answer instead, the words uttered with something like excitement in the boy’s high voice, all but stumbling over his lips in their rush to be spoken. “You kill monsters. How many monsters have you killed? Do you need the whet stone for your sword?”  
“I am”, Geralt answers, because it’s always been easy to humour children as long as they don’t cry the second they set eyes on him. Because he can see just of trace of Ciri in this boy, who has grown up to be the stubborn, kind, strong woman Geralt always knew she would be. “But I am afraid I have lost count of the monsters, there have been plenty of them.”

The boy’s expression transforms into something as misplaced as awe, as wonder, his brown eyes as wide as his open mouth.  
“Have you killed a wyvern? A rock troll? A bru-“  
“That’s quite enough, Bram.” A woman appears from a door behind the counter, her red hair slung over her shoulder in a thick braid, and a fondly exasperated smile on her lips; she must be the boy’s mother, judging by how she ruffles his hair, and the way he pouts at her. “I thought you said you were old enough to help me in the shop, and now here you are, interrogating our customers.”  
Bram grumbles, and the woman looks over at Geralt, a hand still on the boy’s shoulder, as if she didn’t want to let him go just yet. Geralt understands; they do grow up so quickly.  
“I hope he didn’t bother you too much, you see, he’s grown up with all sorts of songs about your kind. Wants to go out and become an adventurer himself”, she tells him, and Geralt’s heart _aches_. “But for now, I can still keep him here to fall asleep when he’s supposed to be taking stock. Anyway, what can I help you with?”

“Need some herbs. Cortinarius, verbena, wolfsbane, if you have any. A whet stone. For my swords.”  
Beneath his mother’s touch, Bram’s eyes go wide.  
“I’ll have to look for the Cortinarius in the back, but I should have the rest. How much do you need?”  
“Just give me what you have.”  
The woman nods, clearly pleased, and turns around to walk back through the door she came from, presumably looking for the mushrooms; she leaves Geralt with a boy that seems to be burning up with questions. Geralt can’t do anything but indulge him.

“I’ve killed many wyverns. I’ve killed rock trolls and some of them, I let live. And I killed a bruxa too.”  
“What about a fleder? A siren?”  
“I’ve killed those, too.” Geralt doesn’t dwell in memories often and he doesn’t do so now, either, instead cocks his head and studies the boy for a moment. “How come you know so much about monsters? Know their names?”  
“The ballads. I know all the ballads.” Bram looks impossibly proud of himself, puffing out his scrawny chest as if to make himself look more imposing. “Learnt them by heart, although my teacher said I didn’t have to.”  
He knows the answer, knows that hearing it spoken out-loud will hurt as much as it will soothe, and yet Geralt can’t stop himself from asking. “Which ballads?”

“The ones the bard Jaskier’s written, of course. It’s said that he knew all the Witchers, but one of them he knew best. Not Eskel though, sadly, because he’s my favourite.” Bram looks at him for a moment, contemplating something, then asks, “Did he know you? Jaskier, I mean.”  
The question sends a shock of pain through Geralt, unexpected and white-hot, almost enough for him to make a sound and scare the boy away. Instead, he nods, grits his teeth before he can dare to answer.  
“I knew him very well”, he tells Bram, doesn’t add, _I loved him. I love him still_. “I’m sure he would be happy to know you still sing his songs.”

It makes Bram smile, which might be worth the pain; he still breathes half a sigh of relief when the shopkeeper pushes back through the door, pouches of herbs in one hand, a whet stone in the other.  
“There you go”, she tells Geralt brightly, putting the goods down on the counter. “I hope my little warrior here didn’t wear you out with all his questions. Is there anything else you need?”  
Geralt considers the question for a second, for two, looks at Bram’s eyes that are still so bright and reaches into his bag. The mere thought hurts, yet Jaskier would like it, he’s certain of it.  
“Yes”, he says.

He leaves them a few minutes later, the mother with her eyes wide with shock, Bram’s small hand clasped tightly around the piece of paper Geralt had ripped from the notebook Jaskier used to carry around with him. It’s just a sketch of Eskel, drawn in rough strokes in one of the winters they spent in Kaer Morhen, hardly worth looking at it, if not to remember the way Jaskier’s eyes used to glitter in the light from the fireplace, how he scribbled with one hand, while he held onto Geralt’s with the other. But Bram had looked at him like he had been given a kingdom instead of a sketch, wide eyes filling with happy tears.  
Jaskier would have loved it, even if ripping out the page had made Geralt’s heart bleed.

 _Art is meant to be shared, my dear heart_ , he can hear the bard sweetly admonishing him, can see him smile fondly at Geralt across the room. _What other purpose is there for it?_  
And thinking of Bram’s face, Geralt finds himself agreeing.

_“I hope you know that this means I’ll never let you out of my sight again”, Jaskier tells him, his voice soft and sleepy. He’s playing with Geralt’s fingers, fitting them against his own only to weave them together again, twisting their joined hands to press a kiss on calloused knuckles. “Not as long as I live.”  
Geralt hums in response; his lips still taste of Jaskier’s kisses, of this new love that he shouldn’t have, but has been gifted anyway. He’s happy in a way he has never felt before, his heart overfull with love and yet light as air, it seems.  
“Never again?”, he asks and can’t help but smile when Jaskier shakes his head immediately, shifts so he can lie down on Geralt’s chest, his chemise soft almost as soft as his dark hair. “In that case, we need to get you better winter clothes, otherwise you won’t like Kaer Morhen much.”  
“You want to take me with you to Kaer Morhen?”_

_Jaskier sounds surprised, but pleasantly so, only cuddles closer when Geralt hums his affirmation.  
“I’ll get to meet all the other Witchers? Hear the stories you share? See those majestic stone-hewn walls of the famed Witcher castle? Oh, Geralt, the stories I will be able to tell. The ballads! Darling, I’d love to go. Even more than I’d love to buy new clothes.” He leans down to press a kiss to Geralt’s chest, hot even through the fabric of his shirt, then moves up to leave another one on his throat, the corner of his mouth. They are sweet, affectionate, and Geralt cannot do anything but wrap his arm around Jaskier and pull him as close as their bodies allow, kiss him with all the love he holds inside his tattered body. _

_Jaskier’s lips are pink and swollen by the time they break apart and he looks so beautiful Geralt is afraid his heart might burst from the sight of it.  
“I never gave you an answer, did I?”, he murmurs, just before he presses another short kiss to Jaskier’s lips, feeling the other sigh against him.  
“I think you did. I could taste it in every kiss.”  
“It’s not enough”, Geralt says quietly, hates that his heart picks up its speed when there is nothing to fear, when Jaskier had bared his so easily before.  
“You don’t-“  
“There is more than friendship between us”, Geralt interrupts, ignores how difficult it is to speak, because Jaskier deserves to hear him say it. “I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I would have been content to just have your friendship, but this… this is more than I ever thought I could deserve. More than I could have wished for.”_

_Jaskier is watching him, blue eyes ever-bright and brimming with tears; he hides his face in Geralt’s chest for a moment, moisture seeping into the fabric of the Witcher’s shirt. But his voice, when he looks back up at Geralt to answer, is happy, if rife with emotion.  
“Ugh, Geralt”, he breathes out, trying to sound put upon but failing miserably. “Gone, all the heroic ballads I wanted to write about you and your brothers in arms. Now I will have to spend my days at Kaer Morhen writing love songs instead.”_

Geralt takes the herbs back to the inn; he meant to use the night to brew his potions, because he used up his last vial of Swallow in the fight against the griffin, but then his fingers touch a twig of ranogrin, the needles bristling against his skin like a lover’s touch, and everything is forgotten. His hands may shake, Geralt refuses to look down to see as he crushes a few needles between his fingertips and lets the scent of them take to the air.  
It’s painfully familiar, tart and aromatic, and Geralt has long since forgotten how his heart feels without it aching, but this new wave of anguish rips through him as if the pain was afraid that he wouldn’t have enough time left to feel all of it.

He doesn’t fight it, allows it instead, because he sometimes likes to pretend he has forgotten how to fight; because the pain is better than forgetting. It’s clean and sharp as it sinks its claws into Geralt’s chest, almost like a blade cleaving his tortured flesh, and Geralt raises the ranogrin spray to his nose, inhaling its scent deeply, letting it taint his lungs, his every cell.  
He’ll go down to the tavern later, hope to hear another of Jaskier’s ballads, even if he has to ask for it, but for now, Geralt breathes in and thinks of nights spent in the wild, only Jaskier’s body and a small fire to keep them warm, thinks of bathtubs filled with hot water and wet limbs, thinks of smelling ranogrin in the crook of Jaskier’s neck as they made love in the deepest night, the light of the early morning.

_The hand Jaskier weaves into his hair is shaking, his elegant fingers tangling in silver locks, and Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, breathes in his scent, presses open-mouthed kisses against hot skin. Tastes sweat and lust, feels the thrum of Jaskier’s blood, the way his pulse jumps as Geralt thrusts into him again, sinking into Jaskier’s slick heat. It draws a growl from Geralt’s lips, the pleasure seething hot underneath his skin, making his nerves sing and beg for more.  
“Darling, dear heart, please”, Jaskier murmurs, asking for everything and knowing Geralt will give it, gladly. His legs wrap tightly around Geralt’s waist, as if he could pull him closer, his cock hard between their bodies, leaving sweet slickness on Geralt’s stomach with every of his thrusts. _

_It’s as easy to lose himself in Jaskier’s embrace as he always knew it would be, in lazy kisses and the heat of his body, the way Jaskier sighs his name when Geralt’s cock slides so deep into him that it becomes hard to distinguish where one of them ends and the other begins. Jaskier makes it harder still, slides a hand down Geralt’s back, across a spiderweb of gnarled scars, the other still in his hair, and arches into the next thrust, forces Geralt deep and deeper still into his waiting body.  
“Oh, I love you”, he half sighs, half moans, strokes featherlight fingertips across Geralt’s shoulder blades, down his spine, touching for nothing but touching’s sake. “I love you so much, there’s no words – oh, by Melitele, Geralt, just touch me, please, I need you-“_

_He sounds deliciously desperate, the fingers in Geralt’s hair tightening to pull his face from where it’s still buried in Jaskier’s neck. Perhaps out of a sense of self preservation, because nothing could have prepared him for how Jaskier looks right now, in his arms and yet losing himself to the pleasure Geralt is trying so hard to give him. His hair is matted with sweat, his skin flushed and vibrant even in the dim light of the fireplace, his eyes screwed shut so that dark lashes fan out like shadows across Jaskier’s cheeks. And his lips, oh, they’re kissed red and swollen, parted just enough to let out another moan when Geralt drives into him, and Geralt has to kiss him, even as every thrust sets his own body aflame with lust, with love._

_Jaskier tastes like honeyed wine and juniper berries, kisses back as hungrily as Geralt kisses him, parting his lips easily to let Geralt lick into his mouth, drink down his moans as Geralt slides a hand between their bodies to wrap calloused fingers around Jaskier’s cock.  
It makes Jaskier cry out, the sweetest sound Geralt can remember ever hearing, the other’s whole body pushing up against as if he was begging for Melitele to meld them together. He shudders, fingers moving aimlessly through the Witcher’s hair, over his back, as if to find something to hold onto, but then Geralt pulls out and thrusts back into him, his hand moving across Jaskier’s cock, and it’s enough to finally make him come. _

_What tumbles from his lips is a jumbled mess, part plea, part prayer, part Geralt’s name; he spills between them, his body clenching around Geralt’s cock tightly, spasming as if to milk his orgasm from him. It only takes a handful more thrusts until Jaskier pushes Geralt over the edge with his body, his hands, the kisses he leaves on shoulders and cheeks and lips alike, the soft nonsense he mutters in between.  
Geralt’s vision whites out, his mind overtaken with pleasure, with Jaskier, as he spends himself deep within the other, clinging to Jaskier like he’s the only thing still tethering him to the ground._

When Geralt makes his way to the tavern again, the sun has sunk until it’s grazing the roofs of Lindenvale’s many houses, its light dimmed but still golden, hiding away the dirt and the dust, the cracked mortar and the crumbling bricks. It makes the village look prettier than Geralt can ever remember seeing it and he takes it in, lets it fill his heart with a sense of melancholy he is not used to. If anything, he would have expected the scent of ranogrin and heartbreak to burn away his ability to feel himself ache, but this sort of pain still reaches him, softer than the fierce blade before, but lingering within him just as easily.

Compared to the last time he set foot in it, the tavern is full of people, the light coming from the fireplace tinting them amber, just like the sun outside would, the muted hum of conversation not quite enough to be called comforting and yet not far from it. The singer is nowhere to be seen, the seat Geralt watched her perform in before empty, but Geralt orders an ale from a disinterested barmaid, ignoring the looks he gets from some of the other patrons, the sneers, the confusion, the thinly veiled interest. He’s used to them and has been too tired to care for what feels like centuries.  
Instead, he sits down at a table that will allow him to see whoever comes and goes, and resigns himself to waiting.

It seems like a good crowd for a bard, pleasant and relaxed, but not rowdy, just drunk enough to loosen the coin in their pockets enough if someone plays them a familiar tune. Geralt knows those crowds, needed to learn how to read them; he just hopes that the bard returns to take advantage of it.

_Jaskier is laughing, breathlessly clinging to Geralt’s shoulder, his cheeks flushed impossibly pink even in the pale moonlight.  
“Melitele’s tits”, he chokes out, still between bouts of laughter that spill from his lips like pearls, shining and precious, even if Geralt couldn’t feel less like laughing. “They really wanted to lynch us. Who would have thought? I don’t even know how this fucking town is called, but they really must have hated one of my songs.”  
Jaskier is still giggling, fingertips brushing across Geralt’s shoulder, his breath warm against his skin, apparently oblivious to the fact that Geralt is seething, wishing Jaskier hadn’t pulled him away when he did, but had instead allowed him to teach the patrons a lesson about what happened if you did as much as look at his bard the wrong way. _

_It had started off as a pleasant enough evening. They had stopped in the smallest of villages, because Jaskier had been begging for a warm meal and the tavern had looked nice enough, but the peace had only lasted until Jaskier had reached for his lute, plucking away at a few strings as if trying to decide which song to start.  
He’d been looking so content, so beautiful in the warm light that Geralt had almost reached out to touch, but then a man from another table had turned around and asked Jaskier his name. Maybe it should have been enough to tip Geralt off, the hostile undercurrent of his words, but he’d been distracted by the line of Jaskier’s neck, the way his lips curled as he answered, the pretty way he had smiled and cocked his head, so obviously flattered by the attention. Only that the man had obviously not meant to flatter. _

_Which had caused them to end up here, Jaskier out of breath and still chuckling, smoothing his hands across Geralt’s shoulder as if he had never been in any danger at all.  
“Which one do you think it was? I don’t think _Toss a Coin _would warrant this kind of behaviour, do you? Unless they really like elves, I guess. Or_ Elaine Ettarial _, if they really don’t like elves. No one could really hate_ Her Sweet Kiss _that much, right? Unless they’re Yennefer, but – “  
“_Jaskier _”, Geralt grits out, interrupting a stream of words that otherwise wouldn’t have stopped for a long time, turning to grip Jaskier’s shoulders, forcing the bard to look right at him. “This isn’t funny. You could have been hurt.”_

 _“But could I have been? Really?”, Jaskier pulls a face, looking at Geralt with his eyes bright and his lips curled around soundless laughter; there is fondness in his gaze, trust, and still too much mirth for Geralt to feel comfortable, even as his heart swells with familiar affection. “I don’t think so. Not as long as you’re with me.”  
And Jaskier looks at him like he knows that Geralt would conquer the world for him, if he only asked for it, and Geralt doesn’t know how to disagree when Jaskier is _right _.  
Again, he breathes out the other’s name, but there is no heat behind it; how could there be when Jaskier is looking at him like that, shuffling closer as if he thought Geralt wouldn’t notice.  
“Exactly.” And he beams at Geralt, before leaning in to steal kiss right from his lips, short and sweet, as if to say I told you so. Geralt lets him. “Now, darling, have you any idea how many bards would kill to have this kind of hatred directed at them?”_

It’s only when Geralt is at his second ale, trying and almost failing to keep on hoping, that the bard walks through the door. She looks the same, her hair dark and her eyes still blue enough to make Geralt ache, even as his heart becomes a fraction lighter.  
There is no reason for it that Geralt can discern but it feels so important to hear at least a few of Jaskier’s words, as if a few familiar notes could somehow save him, a man who’s long since given up on salvation. His eyes catch the singer’s, and there’s a look of recognition that passes her face, just for the fraction of a second her gaze softens, her hand reaching for the lute she has slung across her back.  
It stops midway, but Geralt thinks he still understands the meaning, nods and settles down to wait.

“ _You must be Ciri”, Jaskier greets, smiling down at the girl with a tenderness Geralt has seen before in the bard’s face, but not too often. His blue eyes are kind and he holds out a hand, waiting patiently for Ciri to step forward and take it.  
Geralt tries to encourage her, touching her shoulder as if to tell her it’s alright, but she’s been through hell and back and it must be so hard to trust, even if someone smiles at her so sweetly, asks for nothing in return.  
“You have nothing to fear”, Geralt tells her anyway, keeping his voice as calm as he can, keeping his hand on her shoulder. “I told you about Jaskier, he’s…”_

_For a moment, he stops, not certain how to go on. Not sure if there are words to describe what Jaskier is to him; if there are, Geralt is certain that it would take a poet to know them. But he can’t stop now, because Jaskier is looking at him, eyes wide with surprise and curiosity. And it hits Geralt that they never talked about it, never defined what it is between them, and that, while it matters little to him as long as Jaskier is at his side, it’s the bard who is the romantic, who values words above most other things._

_“He is everything to me. If you trust me, then trust him, because everything good about me, it belongs to Jaskier.” Geralt just hopes that Jaskier understands what he means, has heard the word as_ Whatever you want me to be, I’ll be it, gladly _. And he might have, because Geralt has never been good with words and yet Jaskier is looking at him as if he had written him a sonnet, cornflower eyes shining wetly, bright with devotion.  
He looks like he wants to say something, something that Geralt desperately wants to hear, but he must have forgotten Ciri, at least for a moment, because it startles him when the girl steps forward, losing his touch and yet not stopping until she has grasped Jaskier’s hand in his.  
And nothing matters anymore, because Jaskier looks down at her, the devotion still in his eyes, and Geralt knows that Ciri has found a new family at last. _

At first, the bard plays songs that Geralt might have heard before in passing, meaningless tales of love and sex and loss, some cheerful, a few of them sad, but none of them manage to touch Geralt in the slightest, even if he has felt every emotion she sings about a thousand times. But there is no soul behind the words; they will be forgotten again before they get the chance to spread across the Continent, immortalising the women, the men they praise.  
And yet, Geralt can’t fault their creators for trying when he has seen first-hand what a song can do, which emotions the right words can evoke. So he bides his time, orders another ale and a bowl of stew, listens to the pretty bard sing, flirt and joke in between the songs, accepting drinks from admirers and smiles from everyone, and there is something achingly familiar about the way her eyes sparkle, how she soaks up the attention and Geralt is charmed by her like the rest of the patrons are. He’ll ask her for another of Jaskier’s songs once the crowd quiets down, once she has had her fill of the adoration she deserves, even if her voice isn’t the one Geralt yearns to hear, even if her eyes are the wrong shade of blue.

_The nights in Kaer Morhen have never been as warm as they are now with Jaskier next to him, his hair splayed across the pillows like a halo. It’s getting longer, because Jaskier refuses to let Geralt cut it, who can’t bring himself to mind when it makes it so much easier for Geralt to pull Jaskier down to kiss him when Jaskier is fucking him. Or when Geralt can drag his fingers through it and make Jaskier hum contently, lean into his touch like he does now, rolling over so he can look at Geralt with soft blue eyes.  
“Do you remember the first winter we spent here?”, Geralt asks and chuckles when Jaskier takes his hand to put it in his hair again. _

_“Of course.” Jaskier’s lips curl into a smile at the memory; he hums when Geralt scratches his nails against the bard’s scalp, cards calloused fingers through his silky hair. “I don’t think I could ever forget it. The look on Vesemir’s face when you didn’t arrive alone, like a father who was disappointed at the spouse you had brought home with you. Long nights spent in bed… and a few mornings too. You teaching me how to use a dagger in the courtyard and me going along with it because I liked how close you’d have to stand to me.”  
Jaskier snuggles even closer, his skin soft and warm against Geralt’s as he curls against his side. These might be Geralt’s favourite moments, nothing but them wrapped up in each other, in the way they always seemed to just fit against the other, flaws and virtues alike. He could stay like this forever, playing with Jaskier’s hair and having his beloved’s eyes resting on him, twinkling with mirth and affection. _

_“You never were a natural at combat”, Geralt teases and smiles when Jaskier laughs softly, swats at his chest playfully. “Lambert and Eskel used to bet how long it would take for you to just drop the dagger and drag me off to our room.”  
“I never knew that! I used to wonder why they’d hang around so much.” Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, if the grin spreading his lips wide is any indication, even as he shakes his head in disbelief, causing Geralt’s fingers to drag across his scalp. “They do make a good audience for my songs though, so I can’t even be mad at them. They could be a bit more adoring, but that’s what I have Ciri for. And you. Especially you.”_

“You a Witcher?” A man steps up to him, weathered face and thinning hair, his cap held between his hands, his fingers nervously kneading the material. “My Melissa said there was a Witcher around. Said that he helped old Alfred with a monster and gave her son a drawing he is still chattering about, so maybe he could help us, too.”  
“I am a Witcher”, Geralt tells him, but it doesn’t seem to help with the man’s nerves; for a moment Geralt wonders if he grew up with tales about Witchers that would steal children to sacrifice them to an unnamed god, if he learnt to fear them more than the monsters. “Maybe I’ll be able to help you. What’s the problem?”  
“It’s a dragon-like thing, but with a face. My Melissa, she calls them sirens, says you Witchers could kill it.” The man has leant forward, blocking Geralt’s view of the bard who is taking a break, chatting with one of the barmaids and nursing a tankard of ale. He sounds hopeful, if still nervous, and Geralt’s body pleads for a few days of rest, knowing it will not be heard. “We’ll pay you well, us fishers, we have put together a decent sum if you can just kill it before it takes another of our sons.”

And that is it, Geralt knows he won’t be able to say no, no matter how meagre the reward, because he once thought he’d lost his daughter; it’s a fate he won’t be able to subject anyone else to.  
“I’ll do it.” He watches relief flit across the man’s face, pure and sudden; it’s these moments that Jaskier used to be fondest of, found the most inspiration in, and so Geralt allows himself to take it in for a second before he nods jerkily. _Look, my love_ , he thinks, ignoring the way it claws at his heart _, I’m helping, I’m doing what you asked of me._ “Tell me where I can find it and tell me your name, so I can collect my coin afterwards.”  
“Just at the edge of two, there’s a small lake, just enough to sustain a few families. It must live in it, or around it, for it stole Olaf’s eldest right out of their boat just a fortnight ago. We haven’t dared to fish there ever since.” There is sorrow in his tone; he must have known the boy that was killed, must have cared for him. “Sten is my name, but you can ask any of the fishers and you will get your coin.”  
He seems to hesitate for a moment, and Geralt expects a warning, or another detail, but instead Sten just shakes his head slightly, then looks at Geralt earnestly.  
“Thank you, master Witcher. May Melitele be with you.”

_“I’m sure Ciri is alright”, Jaskier tells him in the softest of voices, sliding his arms around Geralt’s waist from behind. “Yennefer and I might not always see eye to eye, but she cares deeply about Ciri, and even if her training is harsh, I am certain that she’d never do anything but love and guide our little lion cub.”  
Geralt hums in response, keeping his eyes at the window for another few moments before turning around and facing Jaskier. He’s wearing a smile on his full lips, blue eyes crinkling at the edges, and Geralt loves him just as much as he did twenty years ago.  
“It is only that, usually, her letters sound more cheerful”, he finally answers, sliding his arms around the bard’s middle and tucking his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck to breathe in his scent, a hint of ranogrin clinging to his skin still. “But, if anything was truly wrong, Yen would tell me, you’re right. You always are.”  
“I’m going to remind you of that”, Jaskier teases for a moment, slides his fingers into Geralt’s hair to soothe him. It works, just like it does every time. “And she would. Ciri is growing up, nothing more than that. We’re lucky, really, that she only complains about lessons and the quality of food. You should have seen me at her age, I would have driven you up the wall.”_

_Geralt can’t help but chuckle against Jaskier’s throat, feeling his pulse hitch when he presses closer, even after all these years. “You still do that without any excuse you can make for yourself.”  
And Jaskier laughs, drops a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head, then another, as if one hadn’t been enough.  
“Well, you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you, dear heart?” _

_His voice is so warm, so loving that Geralt aches all over in the sweetest of ways, like his chest is trying to find space to fit Jaskier inside of him, keep him there forever. Because he will lose him, one day, and as much as he pushes the thought away, it comes back unerringly, forcing him to lay awake at night with Jaskier perfect and beautiful and infuriating and_ alive _in his arms, and contemplate how there could possibly be a world after this. Finding that maybe, the answer is that there cannot be.  
But Jaskier can’t know, can’t be burdened with Geralt’s pain, so he swallows it down and instead fills his chest with Jaskier’s scent, with the way the other strokes his hair and holds him close, like Geralt is precious, breakable. He might be right about that, too.  
“I wouldn’t, no”, he breathes out and finally pulls back, just enough to look at Jaskier’s dear, dear face. “And now take me to bed and show me just how insufferable you used to be.”_

The night is coming to an end, Geralt can taste it in the air, the shift of atmosphere, the yawns from the other patrons that come more frequently now, the songs that the bard plays turning calm and just a little longing. He wonders if she plays them with someone in mind, if there is someone she yearns for.  
And Geralt is about to get up and approach her, ask her for just a few lines, barely enough to soothe his aching heart, when their eyes meet across the room, hers still so bright, so blue, so wrong. She seems to sense his restlessness, because she shakes her head a little and raises the lute once more.

Geralt recognises it immediately, the first notes washing over him like summer rain, trace his face like a lover’s fingertip, each of them bittersweet, so full of love that Geralt has to close his eyes to keep his composure. Years have passed since he last heard it, perhaps decades, and yet the music is ingrained in the tireless muscle of his heart, in the marrow of his bones, the blood that floods his veins.  
He thought it lost and it would have made sense, for it was never one of Jaskier’s more popular songs, too solemn for it, but it had been dear to Geralt, because Jaskier used to breathe the words into the space between his shoulder blades, used to whisper them late at night as a promise when he knew that Geralt couldn’t be soothed anymore with touches, with kisses. Hearing them now, sung with an unfamiliar voice, is almost too much to take, leaves Geralt’s mind reeling, unsure if he can’t take it or if he welcomes the pain.

“ _A flickering candle, the fire went out, a cold wind blew perceptively_ ”, the bard sings and Geralt can feel Kaer Morhen’s cool walls, can feel the draught against his skin as he curled around Jaskier to keep him warm. Can hear Jaskier grumble when he kept smudging ink across his notebook because the candles kept going out, can hear Eskel tease him about it, pretending he doesn’t want to know if Jaskier is writing a ballad about his adventures this time.  
His hands ball into fists under the table and Geralt cannot open his eyes, because he didn’t have any tears left to shed this morning, but he might have them now.

“ _And the days pass_ ”, she sings and Geralt knows the words like he used to know every freckle on Jaskier’s body, but they still slice into him easily. “ _And time passes in silence, and imperceptibly…_ ”  
His chest has never been large enough to carry Jaskier’s heart in it, and Geralt feels it now, perhaps more than ever, feels it expand and swell, full of decades of love Geralt couldn’t bestow upon anyone, full of Ciri’s pained eyes when she knew he wasn’t sleeping, full of Triss’ kind words, full of Yennefer’s worry.  
“ _You’re with me endlessly_ ”, the nameless bard sings and breaks his chest open, drowns Geralt until he doesn’t know if he won’t just end like this, eyes closed and hands balled into fists, tears not coming because there is no space for them to stem from when all of Geralt is drowning in his impossible love. “ _And endlessly, something joins us but not perfectly, for the days pass and time passes in silence and imperceptibly…_ ”

_“What are you writing?”  
They are camping somewhere on the shoreline west of Crow’s Perch, something they don’t do often anymore, but Jaskier had asked for it, had declared it romantic to spend the night under the bright stars, rocked to sleep by the distant sound of waves crashing against land. And Geralt had agreed because saying no to Jaskier should become easier but does the opposite instead, had built a fire and spread out their bedrolls while Jaskier had sat down to scribble something in one of his countless notebooks.  
“Oh, so now you care about my writings? After decades of pretending you couldn’t care less if I wrote my ballads about Vesemir and Co_ _ë_ _n instead?”, he teases instead of answering, but looks up at Geralt anyway, ink on his chin, smeared down the pale line of his neck, begging Geralt to kiss it off Jaskier’s skin._

_He still doesn’t do more than hum as a response, causing Jaskier to roll his eyes dramatically, but keeping a smile on his lips anyway.  
“Do not worry, my dearest Witcher, it is about none other than yourself”, Jaskier continues, sounding fond and loving, but there is something else in his voice that Geralt thinks he will have to decipher. “But it isn’t yet finished and you will only get to hear it once it is. It is…”  
He trails off, something so uncharacteristic that Geralt looks up from where he was starting to prepare their dinner. Jaskier looks pensive, like he needs to find the right words to say this and yet isn’t certain if he has learnt them yet. _

_“It is something very dear to me”, he eventually continues, speaking every word slowly, as if checking and rechecking if it is the right one. “And something I think could become dear to you too. Something that I maybe should have said before and will have to say another thousand times once it is finished. Something I have to yet keep to myself, not because I want it to be a secret, but because you, my darling, are everything to me, and you deserve to hear it when it is everything it should be and nothing but.”  
The words mean nothing to Geralt, but seemingly so much to Jaskier that Geralt doesn’t dare to disagree, only nods and watches gratitude bloom and blossom in the cornflower blue of Jaskier’s eyes. _

_“Thank you”, he says softly, and Geralt knows he wants to go back to writing, but he stops Jaskier for just another moment, shuffles over on his knees from where he was slicing a rabbit apart so he can make Jaskier look at him. He takes care not to get bloodstains on Jaskier’s skin, the silk of his breeches, and is rewarded with a smile, with Jaskier’s eyes, inexplicably, suddenly shining with unshed tears.  
Geralt uses a calloused knuckle to try and catch them, but Jaskier just chuckles, averts his head for a moment; when he looks back at Jaskier, the tears are gone.  
“I’d do anything for you. Letting you keep one secret is no hardship”, he tells Jaskier, and thinks he can see the tears return just as Jaskier surges forward to kiss the words right off his lips. _

Geralt hasn’t yet opened his eyes when the bard approaches him; he can hear her footsteps clearly even over the hum of noise that surrounds them, the drag of a wooden chair across the floor and the sound of her sitting down, resting her elbows on the table.  
“You’re the one he sings to, aren’t you?”, she asks with the brashness of youth, not even waiting for Geralt to look at her, sounding like she has no idea what kind of havoc she has wreaked within his chest. “You’re his Witcher. The White Wolf. Geralt of Rivia.”

It’s harder than it should be, his lids so heavy that Geralt thinks he could sleep for days without waking, his heart heavier still, but he forces his eyes open and meet her blue ones. She looks enamoured with the idea of them, fascinated, and if Geralt had any space left within him to feel, he might hate her a little bit for it.  
Instead, he nods, and watches her interest blossom further as she leans forward, blue eyes fixed intently on Geralt’s scarred face.  
“I never thought you’d still be alive. It’s been decades since Jaskier passed, I thought… with the way he sung about you, if you felt the same way about him, you wouldn’t have survived much longer.”

Surely, she doesn’t mean for the words to be cruel, Geralt can see that even as they cut into him, scorch his skin and claw at his tattered heart, but they are. He has heard them a thousand times before, but they have never lost their bite, the insinuation that he has ever done anything but love Jaskier with every fibre of his being more painful than any song could ever be.  
And he should allow the pain to transform into fury, like he is prone to do, because it’s easier to let his head be flooded with rage than with an ache so ancient it has found its place within Geralt’s bones. He should chase her away, but he doesn’t have the energy left for it, hardly knows how to keeps himself upright any longer.

“You’re mistaken”, Geralt tells her instead, banishes the memory of Jaskier’s pained eyes on top of that mountain, the way his voice used to break when they fought, his bloodshot eyes after one night in which Geralt had just left, needing to clear his head after they had spent the evening yelling, but never considered that Jaskier would wake up alone and broken and unsure if his promise of _forever_ meant the same as Geralt’s after all. Instead he thinks of Jaskier scrambling up after Geralt had returned later that morning, tripping over his feet in his rush to reach him, wrapping his arms around Geralt so tightly he made it hard to breathe. Tears soaking into Geralt’s shirt, who didn’t know what else to do than to hold Jaskier, stroke his hair and whisper, over and over again, _you won’t lose me, you won’t ever lose me, my love_.  
Tells the bard, who’s still watching him, the one truth he has left inside of him, “The only reason I am still alive is because I loved him just as much as he loved me.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Silver is starting to weave itself into Jaskier’s hair, thread by thread, and Geralt does his best not to see it, but it’s almost impossible to do so when Jaskier lays down with his head on Geralt’s lap, looking up at him hopefully until Geralt chuckles and buries one hand in his mostly dark locks, combing his fingers through them. They are as soft as they always were, and Jaskier hums contentedly, lets his eyes slide shut. It’s not peaceful because Ciri is gone, because nothing will be until they know what happened to her, where she is and how they can get her back, but it’s as close as they will get._

_Jaskier stays silent for a few minutes, but there is an unfamiliar energy thrumming under his skin, Geralt can feel it beneath his fingertips, in the way Jaskier shifts from time to time, as if it was impossible for him to find any comfort in even this.  
“What it is it?”, Geralt finally asks, resuming to stroke Jaskier’s hair even as his eyes fly open, blue and looking almost guilty, as if Geralt had caught him during a thought he would have liked to keep a secret. It makes Geralt worry without knowing what it is he is contemplating, because there are so few things he knows Jaskier not to share with the world whenever the fancy catches him. “You can tell me.”_

_“I know.” Jaskier takes a shaky breath, then smiles up at Geralt, who hates to see that the curve of Jaskier’s lips doesn’t seem to make his eyes shine brighter as it is wont to do. “I have to tell you, even. Geralt… what will you do after I die?”_

_The words knock the air out of Geralt’s lungs like a blow, heavy enough to kill him, surely, because that’s how it feels; he has thought about it before, couldn’t help but do so, and yet has never found an answer, at least none he could share with Jaskier and have the other agree.  
His hand has stopped, but Geralt cannot look away from Jaskier’s eyes, although it is the first time he wants to, not certain how to bear the love within them when it suddenly feels like the beginning of a thousand goodbyes. His heart seems to have stopped, it’s the only explanation Geralt can offer for the pain in his chest; it only starts again when Jaskier reaches out and touches his dear hand to Geralt’s cheek, cupping it softly. _

_“I know, my darling, but we can’t run from it forever.” His voice is gentle and steady, everything the storm of emotion within Geralt isn’t, his palm warm as Jaskier tries to ground him. Geralt loves him so much he cannot talk, cannot speak. “I will not be here forever, that’s the beauty and the curse of being mortal. And I know you will still have Yennefer and Triss to look out for you, if Melitele permits it even Ciri, but darling, I love you more than anything in this world, and I won’t be able to rest easily if I do not know that you’ll be able to go on without me. “  
He brushes a thumb across Geralt’s cheek, tries to smile and almost succeeds, but Geralt still can’t speak, still can’t look away.   
“Now, come”, Jaskier admonishes so softly the words seem brittle, like his voice is about to break in the same way as Geralt’s heart has already broken. “Otherwise I might end up turning into a wraith, just to make sure you’re alright and you’ll have to banish me, and wouldn’t that be the worst ending to our story?”  
And Geralt still doesn’t know how to speak, but for the first time since he was a child, he knows how to cry. _

“How was he?”, the singer asks Geralt, chestnut hair falling into her hair as she cocks her head slightly. “I’ve read the stories he published, his ballads, but you knew him. You _loved_ him.”  
“I still do”, Geralt corrects, slowly unfurls his fists just to have something to do. He doesn’t talk about Jaskier often, because even saying his name out-loud stings his lips; if he does, it’s Triss he talks to, Yen or Ciri, sometimes Keira, each with their own recollection of his bard, their own feelings. Talking about Jaskier as if he was a story is different, neither better nor worse, but Geralt knows that Jaskier would love it, would grin and offer up his own version of their tale so easily and urge Geralt to share his, and by Melitele, Geralt could never say no to him.

“He was everything to me”, he starts, uses words he knows well because he said them a thousand times before, mumbled them into Jaskier’s hair and hummed them against his skin, gasped them out into the cool air around them when Jaskier was so hot around him that Geralt thought he would melt. “And he was everything the stories say and so much more. Optimistic to a fault, kind, willing to love and to forgive without any reason for it. He couldn’t have held a grudge if his life had depended on it. When he was young, he’d be insufferable when we were stuck in a place for too long and he was stubborn right until the end. He was the best thing humanity had to offer.”

It’s nothing but the truth, because Ciri is no longer human, and once the words have started spilling from his lips, it’s difficult to stop them from coming. Maybe Geralt should have started talking about Jaskier years ago, because the world deserves to know what it has lost.   
The bard is still watching him, a look in her blue eyes that is vaguely familiar; it’s inspiration that is sinking its claws into her, Geralt has seen it often enough to recognise the signs. She licks her lips, blinks slowly, then takes a sip of his ale, just as if they were friends when Geralt doesn’t even know her name.   
“You really loved him”, she remarks, and Geralt thanks every possible god that she doesn’t sound surprised, because he doesn’t know if he could have endured it.   
“More than you ever loved someone.”

She doesn’t deny it.

_Neither of them sleeps that night, even though Geralt can see the exhaustion in Jaskier’s movements, can hear it in the slur in his speech. But Geralt doesn’t insult him by suggesting he should go to sleep, doesn’t lie and tell Jaskier that he’ll be fine without the other’s cornflower blue eyes on him until the morning. Instead, they spend the night lying on the thin mattress of the inn they are staying at, legs tangled and their fingers intertwined. Geralt doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to allow Jaskier out of his sight again.  
He is beautiful in the dim light, even with the silver in his hair and the crow’s feet around his eyes, but then again, he always is. _

_“You never answered my question, dearest”, Jaskier asks gently in between kisses and shared breaths and the slow beats of Geralt’s fraying heart, the desperate pleas he sends out to every god that might listen to speed them up, so they’ll be allowed to leave the world together.  
He presses his lips to Jaskier’s just because he still can, then whispers his answer against them.   
“You wouldn’t like the answer.”  
“_Oh darling _.” There is sorrow in his voice as it vibrates against Geralt’s lips, bittersweet and unfamiliar, and Geralt almost wishes Jaskier didn’t know him as well as he does, so his meaning might have stayed hidden for a little longer. “No. Absolutely not, Geralt, you will not leave this world until your time has come, I forbid it.”  
Jaskier pulls away, and there are tears in his eyes, making them with bright with pain and defiance. It was Jaskier’s stubbornness that allowed them to have this, so Geralt cannot curse it, even if he is afraid what it will still lead to. What it will ask of him. _

_“I told you, you wouldn’t like it”, he tries gently, smooths his fingers down across the line of Jaskier’s jaw and wishes he could stop talking and just kiss Jaskier instead.  
“Of course I don’t”, the other answers, almost offended, almost like he expected Geralt to give a different answer, even though he should have known the second he allowed Geralt to kiss him for the first time, he had sealed his fate.   
“It’s the only one I have to give.”  
“It might be now”, Jaskier tells him and his expression changes, softens and is set alight with emotion, his love shining so fiercely out of his eyes that Geralt wants to look away for the second time this night. “I will teach a new one, dear heart. There is so much good in the world, even without me in it, and I’ll do my best to help you see it. But you have to promise me, once I go, don’t try to follow.”  
And he looks at Geralt, bright and beautiful and hopeful, and for once, Geralt cannot give him what he wants._

“My name is Judet, by the way”, the bard tells him, takes another sip from the ale they now share, and Geralt doesn’t know how to answer, what to do with information he did not ask for. It seems right to know her name when she knows his life and yet he stays silent, watches her twirl the tankard around on the table, either working up the courage to ask a question or simply trying to think of one.   
Geralt lets her, watches her fingers scoot across the rim, flutter against the ceramic until she has decided on how to proceed.

“Do you ever…”, she starts, loses her voice before finding it again a moment later, not looking at Geralt but instead watching the tankard spin with him. “Do you ever wish you hadn’t had him? That you didn’t meet, or didn’t fall in love, so you wouldn’t have to go on without him? Is it worth the pain?”  
It isn’t the question he expected, but maybe the best one Judet could have asked, because it is one of few Geralt knows how to answer.   
“No”, he says, doesn’t have to take even a second to think about it. “Not for a moment. Not even when I watched him die. It tore me apart, it still does, but Jaskier was worth every second of it. We had decades together, but even if it had only been a year, a few months, I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.”

She stays silent for a bit, fingers still restless, but when she looks up at Geralt again, her eyes are neither sad nor nervous; they’re hopeful.   
“Thank you”, she says, “I’ll never forget either of you.”

_Geralt hears his footsteps even before the door opens but instead of turning around, he waits until he feels Jaskier’s hands on his shoulders, the warmth of his chest pressed against him from behind.  
“Two Witchers, huh? I always thought that one of you was more than enough to keep me busy”, he comments, obviously teasing, and Ciri looks over at them with a glint in her eye that tells Geralt that, when she was still so much younger, she would have stuck out her tongue. It makes Jaskier laugh, a soft, happy sound, then pretty pink lips press a kiss to the crown of his head, the weight of Jaskier’s hands on his shoulders disappearing for a moment as Jaskier joins him on the bench. He is wearing one of Geralt’s old shirts instead of his usual chemises, and the sight of it is enough to make Geralt’s heart sing. He must know, too, because his smile gains a mischievous edge that tells Geralt that Jaskier wouldn’t be averse to having the shirt torn off him later. _

_“Stop flirting when your daughter in the room”, Triss reprimands them gently, her tone too playful for Geralt to take her seriously, but just enough for Geralt to look at her, at Ciri, who is sitting on the floor in front of her so Triss can braid her hair, and is trying to stifle her laughter but failing. She has grown up to be everything Geralt always knew she would be, strong and kind and brave, stubborn and occasionally reckless, and there is nothing she could do to make Geralt love her any less.  
“This is nothing”, she tells Triss and almost makes Geralt regret his words. “Usually they are worse. Hey, Jask, remember Kaer Morhen, when I walked in on you – “  
“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, I distinctly remember you promising me to never talk about this ever again”, Jaskier interrupts her, his cheeks flushed but laughter tinging his voice anyway. “Don’t make add a stanza to _The Lion Cub of Cintra _about what a brat you are, posthumous slander would be a disastrous look for both of us.”_

_If anything, the words make Ciri giggle, Triss doing her best to keep her sitting still so she won’t mess up the braid, and Geralt wants to keep this memory forever, Triss’ gentle eyes and hands, Ciri’s happiness now they have her back and she doesn’t have to go and fill a role she was bred, but not born for, Jaskier next to him, reaching out to take Geralt’s hand in his, linking their fingers together.  
Leaning in and muttering softly, so neither of the women will hear, “Don’t you think this would be worth living for, darling?”_

He leaves Judet behind, still nursing an ale Geralt bought her, and walks back to his inn, resisting the urge to check in on Roach, because it’s late and the mare surely is asleep already. But there is something so dreadful and familiar about returning to an empty room that Geralt almost changes his mind before unlocking the door, almost returns to more of Judet’s questions, more ale, more songs. But it won’t change anything, won’t make the cold bed more inviting later, so Geralt forces his fingers to turn the key, his hands to push the door open.   
What greets him is the scent of ranogrin and fool’s parsley, what greets him is heartbreak, and Geralt breathes it in deeply.

It takes the snap of a finger to ignite up the fireplace, its light reflecting in the windows, the buckles and plates of Geralt’s armour, and it must be serendipity that Geralt’s eyes catch a glint of white on the table, beneath the pouches of herbs he was meant to brew potions with. It’s a few sheets of paper, just enough for a letter on a night in which he craves company. He doesn’t know how to reach Ciri; sometimes they’ll meet up on the road, take a few contracts on together, but in the end, he has to let her go, because his cub has become a lioness and deserves the chance to make her own memories, untainted by destiny or politics.   
Yet, Geralt misses her, the daughter he never thought he could have, misses her even more tonight. In a few months, once winter has stretched out its icy fingers, they’ll meet in Kaer Morhen, but what usually passes in the blink of an eye seems to stretch endlessly now. However, while it will take time for them to meet, Ciri goes to visit Yennefer whenever she’s close by; Yennefer, who loves Ciri like a daughter and who has been a better friend to Geralt than he might deserve.   
Yennefer, who will surely hand Ciri his letter with a snide comment about how he is growing sentimental in his old age, but with her lilac eyes fond and brightened by understanding. And after all, it’s nothing Geralt could object to, not even if he wanted to.

_Before anyone else can see it, Geralt rips the letter to shreds, feeling the thick paper give way far more easily than it should. It’s in tatters within seconds and he throws the remnants into the fire to make certain it stays his secret. In his chest, panic is rising quickly, a flood he hasn’t yet found a way to quell, but instead one that seems to get more dangerous with every time it crashes over him.  
One day, it will drag him out to sea, drown him there, Geralt knows it, and yet hasn’t found something to hold onto yet, even if he has tried his hardest. He has asked the elves and the dwarves, the dryads in Brokilon forest; he has written Triss more times than he could count, has asked Keira and even sent word to Philippa Eilhart, even if there had once been a time in which he had hoped to never deal with her again. _

_And he had asked Yennefer, right at the very end, when he didn’t know what else to do, not because he thought her the least capable, but because he knew she’d be the first to reject him. Now she was the last.  
It’s hard to breathe, and dimly, Geralt thinks that maybe he should be used to the feeling, but it doesn’t get easier, doesn’t get better, because time passes so quickly now, silently, that it seems that sometimes, all he does is blink and he loses months at a time, months he should have spent better, more carefully, with eyes wide open as not to miss a second. Because he doesn’t know how many he still has left. _

_The letter burns up quickly, painful words turning to dust, and Geralt is about to leave and try to take his mind of another hope that has been squashed, but then there are footsteps approaching, their pattern familiar, and even if his chest aches and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to summon a smile to his lips, he stays.  
Jaskier rounds the corner and Geralt feels his muscles relax despite himself when the bard comes closer, slides his arms around Geralt’s waist from behind, resting his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. Over the years, they have found a way to fit together so close to perfectly, and it’s second nature by now for Geralt to lean back against the man who is still everything to him, feel Jaskier hum softly in response. _

_“There you are”, Jaskier mutters into the crook of Geralt’s neck, his breath ticklish against the Witcher’s skin. “I’ve been searching for you. Winter after winter I have spent in this damned castle and yet I still cannot find my way around it.”  
He’s waiting for an answer, but Geralt can’t think of anything to say, not with the panic still lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting to strike again. It’s a vicious thing after all, keeping him up night after night, distracting him when he should be focussed, making him falter when he should be standing strong.   
“Ciri told me you had gotten a letter”, Jaskier continues once he realises that he will have to carries this conversation by himself, and Geralt nods in response, Jaskier’s hair tickling the side of his throat at the motion. “Who was it from?” _

_“Yen. Nothing important, don’t worry.”  
“The famed sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg, finding time to do anything that isn’t of the greatest importance? I struggle to believe that.” Jaskier sounds playful, presses a kiss to the side of Geralt’s jaw, so obviously trying to cheer him up, and Geralt loves him so desperately he almost expects his chest to burst open, set both of them aflame. But he still can’t answer, can’t move, can hardly even speak, and it stings when Jaskier sighs into his shoulder, deflated.   
“You’ve been distant, darling”, he mumbles, and still leaves another kiss on Geralt’s cheek, as if he could somehow make it better. “Do you want to tell me what is bothering you? Maybe I could help. Or I could at least try to distract you from whatever it is.”_

_It’s the sweetest of offers and Geralt wants nothing more than to take it, but he can’t, doesn’t know how to.  
“It’s nothing, love”, he tells Jaskier and knows that the tone of his voice is giving him away. “You do not need to worry about it.”  
A moment passes, a pause filled with tension that Geralt isn’t familiar with but hates all the more, then Jaskier nods against his shoulder, slow and weary.   
“I’ll never stop worrying about you”, he mutters, and his voice is muffled by the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, dulled by resignation, but he still pulls Geralt closer, his heartbeat steady against the Witcher’s back. “But I’ll do my best to keep it at a minimum for you, darling.”_

When he wakes, the sun has not yet risen, but the first rays of her light are already tinting the sky red and pink and golden, illuminating the small room just enough to let Geralt know a new day has begun. Although he tossed and turned all night, he feels rested, the last wisps of his dreams still lingering behind his lids whenever he closes his eyes.   
Memories of Yennefer helping Ciri up onto her first horse, Vesemir watching from afar and not being able to keep the smile from his face at Ciri’s obvious joy. Of Triss, exhausted but happy, because they had helped save a young mage and her lover from witch hunters, smuggling them out of Novigrad through a net of tunnels and caves beneath the city. Of Jaskier, always of Jaskier, pulling Geralt close to tuck his chin against his shoulder, his fingers strong and calloused as they thread themselves in Geralt’s hair; Jaskier beaming at him from across the room and lighting it up without knowing; Jaskier, with his hair more silver than brown, resting their foreheads together and telling Geralt _, come home to me, dear heart, come home_.

Usually, his dreams leave him frayed around the edges, as if half his heart was still caught up in the memories of how it used to be, yet he is calm as he pushes himself up, even if he still feels the ghost of Jaskier’s fingers on his shoulder, trying to pull him back down.   
_Just a few more minutes_ , he can hear Jaskier mumble, his voice soft with sleep, _don’t leave, you’re warm._  
Geralt shakes off the thoughts, there is no point in staying in bed when he’s the only one in it; instead, he dresses, ignoring how his body protests as he dons his armour once more, the leather and metal digging into familiar grooves and bruises. He is used to the discomfort, shrugs it off as best he can and packs the rest of his things, the herbs and his whet stone, shoulders his swords, knowing he’ll need them later. It’s just the letter he keeps in his hand, the white paper stained with ink from his untrained hands; he’ll leave it with the innkeeper, together with a few orens, and the request to post it.

Just before he leaves, on a whim, he takes the crushed ranogrin twig and stuffs it down his glove; the scent makes up tenfold for the way the needles prick his skin.

_“Geralt, darling?”, Jaskier calls out as he steps into the room; Kaer Morhen is cold as ever and Jaskier is bundled up in what seems like every piece of clothing he could find. He sounds cautious, something Geralt has never associated with his bard, something that sets Geralt’s nerves on edge within seconds, makes his slow heart beat faster. “Lambert told me I would find you here. Can we talk?”  
He is fidgeting, fingers picking at the seams of one of his jackets, and Geralt hasn’t been able to get rid of the panic in his chest ever since Yennefer’s letter came, but it’s the first time it’s Jaskier’s words that summon it. A frantic hum starts right under Geralt’s skin, filling up the cavity of his chest until he feels like drowning, because Geralt cannot remember the last time Jaskier looked nervous around him and it pains him in a way he almost forgot about. It’s a quiet ache, settling deep in his bones, and Geralt knows he has to fix this, the need for it pushing even thoughts of potions, enchantments and solutions behind; he’ll fix this, he has to, because he cannot take Jaskier’s eyes being filled with uncertainty when he looks at him. _

_Geralt moves to stand up, to meet Jaskier in the middle and take him into his arms, kiss the worry from his furrowed brow, but Jaskier motions him to stay and instead joins Geralt on the bench he is sitting on, ignoring that it is close to the window, that the cold must be seeping through all his layers and chilling him to the bone. And yet, Geralt is frozen to his spot, unable to offer moving to another room, to pull Jaskier in his arms to warm him, because the other’s eyes look different up close, determined as ever, but with an ache hidden within the blue of them that takes Geralt’s breath away with its intensity. He doesn’t know what happened, only knows that he’d do anything to undo it.  
“What –“, he starts, but Jaskier interrupts him with the slightest shake of his head, a gentle smile on his lips. Yet, he soothes the sting of it by reaching out and taking Geralt’s hand in his, the callouses of his fingertips catching slightly on Geralt’s knuckles as Jaskier drags them across the back of his hands. It’s familiar, it’s love, it’s everything Geralt cannot bear to think of losing. _

_“Forgive me, darling, I don’t quite know how to say this”, Jaskier mutters and his voice is too soft, too sweet, too calm, makes Geralt’s heart ache because he can still see the pain in Jaskier’s eyes. “But Yennefer has written me a letter…and at first, I wondered what I had done to anger her, but she wrote that you’ve been asking her for something. A cure for mortality.”  
His hands are still holding onto Geralt’s, the only source of warmth still left, because Geralt is frozen inside, the panic no longer making his bones rattle because it’s congealed inside of him, making it impossible to breathe, to think. Jaskier was never supposed to find out, not before Geralt had found a way to fix this, and yet Jaskier is looking at him with more care, more love than should exist on the entire Continent, more sadness than Geralt ever wanted to allow within his heart. _

_“You must know”, Jaskier continues, strokes fingertips across Geralt’s useless hand before he brings it up to his lips, brushing a kiss against the knuckles, “that if I could, I would spend eternity with you. But Yennefer has assured me in no uncertain terms that there are just two way to achieve such a feat – become a sorcerer or go through the Trial of the Grasses, and we both know that I don’t possess a spark of magic within my body. And that, even if it was still a possibility, the Trial would do nothing but allow death to catch up to me much sooner.”  
Jaskier chuckles softly, without mirth in his voice, and Geralt feels his eyes starting to burn, his chest constricting, squeezing viscous panic through his veins, his lungs, until it starts to feel like heartbreak. Another kiss is pressed to his knuckles, meant to soothe, but Geralt is long past soothing. _

_“I love you, dearest. More than anything or anyone, and you have made my life more than I could ever have dreamt it to be before I met you. You are all of my best memories and it was you, who made the worst ones bearable. Having one lifetime with you in it, it’s all I could ever have asked for.”  
There are tears shining in Jaskier’s eyes, but he doesn’t allow them to fall, instead holds their joined hands against his cheek and looks at Geralt through his lashes, so much love in his gaze that Geralt forgets how to breathe.   
“One day”, Jaskier continues and Geralt knows that this is something he has been thinking of, written down in the confines of his head so he’ll deliver it perfectly, as if the right words could make their meaning hurt any less. The thought is terrifying beyond belief. “One day, I will have to leave you and it will be the hardest thing I’ll ever do, but it seems that there is nothing either of us can do against it. I’ll have to learn how to let you go, and believe me, dear heart, there is nothing in the world that could ever prepare me for how much it will hurt. And you will have to learn how to live without me, because I will ask the one thing of you I know you don’t want to give, again and again, for nothing but the most selfish of reasons. Just because I don’t want to even consider a world without you into it, even after I have passed.”_

_A tear spills from cornflower eyes, glistening in the dim light streaming through the window; it dampens Geralt’s skin where it is still pressed against Jaskier’s cheek, and he can’t look away, can’t do anything but allow Jaskier to talk and prepare his heart to be broken.  
“It will hurt and I won’t be there to soothe your pain, and nothing has ever scared me more than that thought, but I’ll do my best to help you with every step as long as I still can. Because I know, oh, my love, I know that I am the one who gets off easy and you will be the one who will have to bear my pain alongside with yours.”   
Another tear, another kiss to Geralt’s damp knuckles, then Jaskier lets their hands sink back to his lap and looks at him, his tenderness a sword that cleaves apart Geralt’s heart and lets its contents spill freely into the air between them. “If I could, I would take your place, your pain, but for once, I cannot. But I can give you another ten years, maybe twenty, and I can give you my heart, over and over again, and hope that it’s enough to make it worth it.”_

_Jaskier’s words dry up between them while Geralt’s heart still spills blood and love, threatening to drown them both; Jaskier deserves an answer, but Geralt can’t speak, can’t form a thought, because heartbreak has given way to love, filling up his entire being. Not enough to filter out the pain, but to make it seem more bearable for just a moment, because he’ll suffer through anything if it means he gets to keep Jaskier in his arms a little longer. Losing him still seems impossible, but Jaskier’s eyes are begging him for acceptance and Geralt has lost the ability to say no to him._

_Instead of speaking, he pulls Jaskier into his arms, wrapping them around Jaskier’s slighter form until he can feel the lines of his body even through the layers of fabric, tucks his head into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and breathes in his scent. Jaskier’s chest is wrecked with half-suppressed sobs and Geralt holds him tighter, feels fingers weave themselves into his hair, smells a hint of chamomile and ranogrin and knows that his world has changed, irreversibly.  
“Anything”, he stutters and with that, rips a hole into his own chest to tear out his heart, lay it in Jaskier’s lap to decide its fate. He straightens, catches Jaskier’s gaze so he’ll know Geralt means it, even if his own eyes sting and Jaskier’s are bloodshot, wet with tears. “I’ll do anything you ask of me, Jaskier. You’ll always be worth it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Jaimie, who also named Judet because I am horrible at giving characters names, pointed out, it only makes sense why Ciri is gone if you've played the third Witcher game, so for everyone who hasn't and wants to know:   
> Ciri is chased by the Wild Hunt and hides away in another world, but Geralt just thinks she is lost and searches for her, there are lots and lots and lots of shenanigans, which are basically the entire game, and then she finally reunites with Geralt, Yen, Triss and the other Witchers back at Kaer Morhen.   
> It's an incredible story and an incredible game and I'd highly recommend both ♥
> 
> Oh, and also, I'm sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a warm day, even though the sky is matted with clouds, and Geralt leaves Roach in the stable, but still sneaks her an apple and an extra pat before he leaves. He faintly remembers the lake the fisherman talked about, even if he would have considered it nothing but a pond, remembers Jaskier taking off his shoes and wading into the muddy water on a far too hot day, his grin cheerful and innocent, betraying the lines on his face, the threads of silver weaving through his hair. He had splashed water into Geralt’s direction but missed, remedied the situation later, after he had slipped and fallen face first into the water, by pulling Geralt into a long, lazy kiss and leaving his shirt just as wet as Jaskier’s doublet.

There are no kisses to be shared today, hopefully no reason to get his clothes wet, but Geralt allows himself a few moments to bask in the memory of Jaskier’s blue eyes anyway, pushing aside the pain that always accompanies his recollections. For some reason it is easier to do so than it usually is, a sense of tranquillity lingering in his thoughts in the dimmed light of this summer morning. Geralt drinks it up gratefully, feels the scratching of ranogrin against his wrist and the pull of his muscles underneath the armour.

Usually, the moments in which he is calmest are with Ciri, her presence a balm which could soothe almost all heartaches, her smile still something Geralt can see Jaskier in, if he dares to look. The last time they had met was in spring in Novigrad, Geralt being plagued by the familiar mix of wanting to run and never wanting to leave again. And yet, finding Ciri in the garden that had been Jaskier’s and his a lifetime ago had felt right, her clever fingers picking at the weeds growing between small batches of healing herbs. She considers it home still, Geralt knows that much, comes back every few weeks if her Path allows it, but thinks that Geralt doesn’t notice that she tends to the plants, dusts the shelves upon shelves of books in Jaskier’s study and washes the windows so that the morning light lights up the living room in hues of orange and gold.   
She’s not with him, but the few lines Geralt had penned the night before have brought her closer, and maybe the memory of her smile is enough to calm him. He hopes that she is happy, that is what Geralt had written as a last line in his letter, and it matters above all else, Ciri being happy and loved and knowing that she a home, not just in Novigrad, but in Kaer Morhen, in Kovir with Triss and wherever Yennefer is. And maybe, if Geralt and Jaskier and Yennefer and Triss and Vesemir have raised her right, she’ll one day make her own.

_Jaskier’s fingers are gentle as they brush through Geralt’s hair, untangling the knots, and Geralt leans back into his touch, letting his eyes slip shut. He has been trying to make every moment count, like Jaskier keeps telling him to, but it’s so hard to know if he is succeeding or if he is still missing time he could be spending with Jaskier in between, seconds of the other’s smile, sunsets he ignores or long evenings they could fill with talking but instead Geralt sharpens his swords and Jaskier writes down his thoughts, each of them wrapped up in their own world.  
Jaskier always just laughs when he asks, tells Geralt that he’s _doing just fine, darling, really, now pass me my doublet, would you _, but right now it is easy not to carried away, because Jaskier drops a kiss to his head and scratches his fingernails across that spot behind Geralt’s ears that makes his skin break out in goose bumps. He could live in this moment for the rest of eternity, Geralt thinks, and stores it away, a memory for when he won’t have much more than that._

_“Darling”, Jaskier starts in between sweeps of his fingers through Geralt’s hair, who can’t help but smile; he knows this tone of voice, has heard it in front of window fronts and while walking past inns that looked temptingly warm and dry during a downpour, once from Jaskier with a length of rope in his hands and a flush on his cheeks.  
“What do you need?”, he asks and Jaskier chuckles in response.   
“You know me too well to have secrets any longer, don’t you?”, he asks and Geralt can’t, won’t deny it. “Well, not something I would usually ask for. No clothes, no feast, nothing of the sort. Do you perchance remember a certain fellow down in Novigrad by the name of Alonso Wiley?”  
“No.”  
“Ah, well. Perhaps you know him under another moniker”, Jaskier continues, a certain playfulness in his voice which Geralt can’t help but adore. “Whoreson Senior.”_

_For a second, Geralt means to laugh, but then he remembers Whoreson, a bastard of a man with a sadistic side he didn’t bother to keep hidden.  
“The crime boss?”, he asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. If Jaskier wasn’t weaving his hair into a braid right now, he would turn around to look at his bard and try to read what he is thinking in Jaskier’s eyes.   
“The patron of the arts, I’d prefer to call him”, Jaskier corrects him, still playful, but tension audible underneath. “Particularly of me, as it turns out. He was murdered recently and, well, it appears he left me a brothel in his will.”_

_“What?” No hands in his hair can keep Geralt from turning now. Jaskier doesn’t try to stop him, but lets go of his half-finished braid easily and has the decency to look sheepish when he meets Geralt’s gaze. “Why would he leave you anything, let alone a_ brothel _?”  
“I have no idea. Perhaps he just liked my music?”  
“Enough to leave you a brothel?”  
Jaskier shrugs helplessly, still half-smiling, and although Geralt is slightly dumbfounded by the revelation, he can’t help but to return it; it is the most bizarre situation to find themselves in, after all. And it seems to be the right response, because some of the tension leaves Jaskier’s form and he reaches out to take one of Geralt’s hand in his, weaving their fingers together.   
“I suppose he did? I was as surprised as you are at the news, but it appears that we now own a brothel.” _

_It shouldn’t matter, because they have been sharing everything for decades, and yet it makes Geralt’s heart sing when Jaskier includes him so easily, even if it is in a situation this strange.  
“And what are we now going to do with our brothel?”, Geralt asks, fighting the urge to laugh. For a moment, it seems like Jaskier is dealing with the same problem, but then the tension settles back into the space behind his eyes, dimming them ever so slightly.   
“Well, that’s the part where my request comes in”, Jaskier starts, gripping Geralt’s hand a little tighter, but smiling up at the Witcher when Geralt moves to cover it with his own. “We could sell it, of course, but I was thinking… I love walking the Path with you, you know that. But I am not as spry as I used to be, and at some point, I suppose, I will have to stay somewhere for more than a few days at a time.”_

_It doesn’t come as a surprise, not really; they haven’t talked about it yet, but Geralt has seen the signs, noticed the aches that don’t leave Jaskier as easily anymore as they used to, the way he sometimes winces when he thinks Geralt doesn’t notice, the times Jaskier falls asleep in the early evening, leaning against Geralt, because the day’s trip exhausted him. Every sign of Jaskier’s age makes Geralt’s heart clench painfully, knowing he can’t do anything to make it better, but ignoring it won’t help either.  
“You want to settle down in a brothel”, Geralt states, still slightly disbelieving, and Jaskier should be relieved, but doesn’t look it. _

_“I’d like to convert it to a cabaret. Or a tavern, maybe. Not yet, I have a friend in Novigrad, Zoltan, who I think would agree to run it for now. I won’t leave you, dear heart.” The words flow from Jaskier’s lips like he has been thinking about how to say this for some time, like he is scared of Geralt’s answer, and it’s only a few moments later that Geralt understands why. “I know, Witchers don’t retire, only get slow and die, you told me that yourself – “  
“Jaskier”, Geralt interrupts, and there’s a hint of fear in Jaskier’s blue, blue eyes, like he thinks he could be rejected, and Geralt loves him with a passion that is still enough to take his breath away now, after decades. “Back then I also told you I didn’t want anyone to need me. And yet, here we are.”_

_The world seems to pause for the length of a heartbeat, then the tension bleeds out of Jaskier’s form, relief flooding his eyes and making them shine the way they are supposed to, a smile spreading his lips wide.  
“Here we are”, he repeats back at Geralt, his voice as soft as his eyes, as the way he brushes his thumb across the back of Geralt’s hand. “You could still go on hunts, there are contracts in Novigrad, and I could come with you and leave Zoltan to run things so I could find some new inspiration. But in between, we could… come home.”  
“…come home”, Geralt echoes and doesn’t know how to continue; it’s no concept he ever really considered, no life he thought he would be allowed to live.   
“Yes”, Jaskier says, the smile on his lips still so tender, but at the same looking so happy that Geralt thinks it rubs off on him, even before he has the chance to kiss it from Jaskier’s lips. “We could find a house nearby. A study for me, space for all the books I could ever read, a garden for you to sharpen your weapons, maybe grow some herbs for your potions. A living room with a fireplace and a bathtub that is big enough for the both of us. A bed that is ours.”_

_Geralt cannot see it in front of his inner eye, but he knows Jaskier can, and that’s enough for both of them.  
“A home?”, he asks, and Jaskier leans in until their lips almost brush.   
“Yes”, he mutters and now Geralt can taste his happiness. “_Our _home.”_

By the time Geralt reaches the lake, the clouds have parted just enough to let the occasional ray of sunlight through, reflecting off the muddy water and making it glitter for a few, precious moments. It still looks like Geralt remembers it from years ago, even if the houses have inched closer, crowding the shore now as Lindenvale has grown in size, fishermen’s boats scattered across the rough sand.   
In another life, with the right care, the houses could be welcoming little homes with a fireplace and a table that fits an entire family around it, a few beds filled with children and the scent of dinner cooking on the stove to come home to. But in this one, they are in a sorry shape, just like the rest of the town, the houses’ windows blind and if their inhabitants ever had the means to paint them, the remnants of the attempt have long since been washed away by the rain.   
Whoever lives here hardly seems to have the money to keep a roof over their head, so Geralt doesn’t know just how they would find the money to contract him, especially because the nets he sees on tangled on the shore are dry and haven’t been mended in a very long time.   
Maybe he’ll refuse their payment, instead ask for a warm bed and a meal the next time he comes around, but while the coin he got for the griffin was decent, it won’t last for long.

He takes a moment to look around, take in the sadness that seems to weigh down the air around them, the fear that turns its scent sharp; at first glance, there are no signs of sirens, no mangled fish or incisions in the ground from their tails whipping into it, but the lack of them doesn’t have to mean anything.   
A child was taken and Geralt won’t go back to its parents without information, or without knowing for certain that the monster that caused their pain is gone. So instead, he walks on and listens to the faint hum of a siren’s song weaving through the air.

_“Is it everything you thought it would be?”, Geralt asks Jaskier as they look out across their small garden, Jaskier’s arms a familiar warmth around his middle. The other’s chin is resting on Geralt’s shoulder, his silver hair tickling Geralt’s cheek whenever Jaskier moves, but there is no answer for a few, long moments.  
Instead, Geralt can hear the crackling of the fire they lit in the living room, the hum of the city outside, the beat of Jaskier’s heart, so much faster than his own and yet relaxed.   
“No”, Jaskier finally answers and tightens his grip around Geralt’s waist just a little bit. “It’s so much better.”_

Geralt walks the entire length of the lake without finding a single sign of a siren, of any monster. There are claw marks on the side of one of the boats, dried blood crusting on the worn woods, half eaten fish on the shore, their blood soaking into the sand and turning it dark brown, but it’s nothing concrete. If it was a siren, it hasn’t come back for at least a week, giving its scent time to fade away until even a Witcher’s senses cannot pick it up and Geralt is starting to believe that maybe, the danger has been banished after all, that he will be able to give the fishermen good news and still refuse their money.   
But then he looks out across the lake once more, just to make sure, and spots it.

A shadow, high up over the surface of the water. Too large to be a bird, its wings wide and tattered, a thick tail swishing to cleave apart the air beneath it; it’s a siren and yet it’s different, an ekhidna, stronger and quicker and far more deadly.   
It hovers over the lake for a long moment, then, as if it could sense it is being watched, the ekhidna screeches, the sound so shrill and hollow it would chill Geralt right to the core, had he not heard it a thousand times before.   
They’re ugly beasts, covered in purple scales, their teeth as sharp as razors and the force of the blows they can deal with their tail so grand it can shatter bones without an effort and Geralt watches its form dip until it skims the water, before it turns and moves away from him, towards the other side of the lake.   
There is nothing he can do but grit his teeth, and follow.

_“Do you have to go?”, Jaskier whines; some things, it seems, do not change with age. “I far prefer it when you’re here.”  
He looks up at Geralt with eyes that seem to have grown even more blue with his hair turning grey, years of laughter etched into the skin around his mouth, a trillion smiles written into the lines around his eyes. Geralt thinks he’s beautiful, even if he knows that Jaskier spends more time looking in the mirror nowadays, applying oils and tinctures and cursing under his breath, and he loves him just as much as he did the first time he kissed Jaskier, if anything, a little more.   
“Unfortunately, that’s what the ekhidna down in Ursten would prefer too”, Geralt answers and presses his lips against Jaskier’s forehead, smooths his fingers down Jaskier’s cheek. “I said I’d take the contract, so yes, I have to go. But I won’t be gone for long, two or three days, if even that. And afterwards, I’ll tell you all about it for your next ballad.”_

_He needs to get out of the city from time to time, allow his ears not to hear, his nose not to smell, both of them know it, but today it doesn’t seem like enough to wipe the pout off Jaskier’s face.  
“As if you’d need my ballads any longer. One day, some young plucky bard is going to come along and just snatch you up to be their muse instead, and you’ll forget all about my ballads.”  
Jaskier is teasing, but there is a hint of vulnerability in his voice, in the way his eyes soften around the edges, and Geralt feels his heart seize with love, with a determination so bright it borders on possessiveness.   
“Never”, he all but growls, gripping Jaskier’s chin and making sure the other looks at him. “Never, Jaskier.”_

_Gratitude and love shine out of Jaskier’s eyes, and Geralt hates it for just a moment, because it shouldn’t be something Jaskier is grateful for; Geralt is the one who is fortunate that Jaskier chose to spend his life with him. But it’s hard to concentrate on that when Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, short but even sweeter than his usual fleeting kisses are, and when the familiar glint is back in his eyes once Jaskier has pulled away again.  
“In that case, I suppose I can allow you to go”, he concedes and picks Geralt’s hand from his chin and instead holds it tightly in his own. “If you promise me something.”  
“Hmm.”  
“Promise me”, Jaskier says, soft and loving that Geralt’s heart swells although he knows the words that will follow; he has heard them a dozen times before after all. “That you’ll come home, darling. Come home to me.”  
It’s the easiest promise Geralt has ever made. _

By the looks of it, the ekhidna has seen almost as many winters as Geralt has. Its wings are ripped in places, scarred in others and its scales have partly lost their shine, but it still seems healthy as Geralt approaches cautiously, taking care not to make more sounds than absolutely necessary.   
He did not prepare for this; sirens are an easy enough thing to get rid of, nothing but pesky vermin, but to fight an ekhidna, Geralt would usually bring oils and decoctions, maybe bombs, but definitely not only his swords.

For a moment, he considers turning around and walking back to the town, seeing what else Bram’s mother has in stock, but he thinks of the boy the creature already took, of the dry nets and the shabby houses with their sightless, dark windows and decides against it. After all, it is just one beast and he has dealt with many of them before and made it out alive; all the while, a quiet voice in the back of his mind reminds Geralt that, if this time should be different, his last breath would be a sigh of relief.

He creeps up a little closer to the ekhidna, until he can make out the shine of its teeth as it parts its jowls to devour the fish it must have caught before, then he starts to unsheathe his sword. It’s a good moment for it, the ekhidna occupied with something different, but the silver scratches against the hardened leather and Geralt was right about the beast. It might be old, but that makes it no less of a threat.   
For a sound this quiet is enough to make the ekhidna whip around mid-air, dropping the fish carcass back onto the shore as it focusses all attention on Geralt, on the danger he presents. Its tail snaps through the air, as harsh as a whip would sound, and its face distorts, razor-sharp teeth glistening in the sunlight as the ekhidna leans forward, readying itself for a fight.   
The sight should be terrifying, but Geralt only thinks of cornflower eyes and a bright smile, a declaration of love on pink lips and lute-calloused fingers leaving goose bumps on his skin and grips his sword tighter.   
Wonders what kind of ballad Jaskier could spin out of an encounter this bland, a town this forlorn, a hero who would consider death a kindness.   
And charges.

_Pressed against Geralt’s chest, Jaskier feels even thinner than he is, his thin, silver hair tickling Geralt’s cheek as Jaskier leans back against him, sighing contentedly. It’s a warm summer day and their garden around them is in full bloom, the branches of the raspberry bushes heavy with ripe fruit, the grass speckled with dandelion and daisies; Geralt inhales deeply and yet can’t smell anything but Jaskier’s shampoo, the remnants of black tea and juniper berries clinging to his breath.  
“What a lovely day, isn’t it, my darling?”, Jaskier asks, his voice soft and sweet, something Geralt can’t help but cling to. Geralt just hums in response, not sure if it is wise to trust his words. _

_There is a pause, thick as honey, and Geralt wishes he could speak just to break the silence before he drowns in it, but he doesn’t know how to when Jaskier is so frail in his arms, when Geralt loves him so much his chest is heavy with feeling, his heart permanently bloated, as if ready to burst.  
Yet, maybe he should have, because like this, it’s Jaskier who speaks first, his lips wrapping around words Geralt can’t bear to hear. _

_“We won’t have much longer, will we?”, Jaskier asks, his tone mild, as light as a summer’s breeze, even if the question punches the air right out of Geralt’s lungs.  
It hurts like nothing ever has before, no fight, no wound, no meanspirited word, because it doesn’t slice into his heart, through his flesh. Instead it’s a dull, all-encompassing pain, an ache as inevitable as unbearable. If anything, it feels like suffocating, it feels like being crushed under the weight of the world, it feels like looking up at the night sky and finding nothing but emptiness staring back at him.  
Geralt wants to lie, both to Jaskier and to himself, as if refusing to acknowledge it could help, but Jaskier has been strong for him more times than Geralt can remember, so Geralt forces himself to admit what hurts him most.   
“No.”_

_Jaskier hums, pulls Geralt’s arms around him as if he’s cold even now, and Geralt aches in the worst of ways, because he knows that the only thing the future holds for him is more pain.  
“It was a good life, though, wasn’t it?”, Jaskier asks him, the past tense sounding so jarringly wrong Geralt cannot help but flinch. Without thinking, he tightens his arms around Jaskier’s waist, who doesn’t seem to mind, only settles back against Geralt’s chest and covers his hands with brittle ones.   
“Better than any I could ever have hoped for”, Geralt answers and feels how his throat closes up, tears threatening to well up in his eyes. Even after having so long to try and prepare for this, he still doesn’t know how to lose what is most important to him. _

_Jaskier knows it, has held him a hundred times, whispering sweet nothings into his hair, singing of flickering candles and cold wind, about being together endlessly when both of them knew it was the one thing they wouldn’t be allowed to have.  
Now, when his strength isn’t even enough to carry him out into their garden without Geralt’s arm around his shoulder, or Ciri’s helping hands, Jaskier only squeezes his hands, turns his head to brush a soft kiss against Geralt’s cheek.   
“I’m glad, then”, he murmurs, and his breath is warm, smells of juniper berries and the lazy mornings they still spend in bed together. “You deserved nothing less.”_

The ekhidna lunges at him, drawing its wings close to its body to mould itself into an arrow, claws outstretched and just as sharp as Geralt’s silver sword. It cuts through the air, so fast Geralt only has a split second to prepare, but even though he has been tired for so long, Geralt has never felt more awake than he does now, his senses sharpening until they become the tools that have allowed him to walk the Continent for so many decades.   
There is a shift in the air around him, almost unnoticeable, and Geralt ducks, rolling to his side to evade the ekhidna’s claws, but its tail almost catches him across the back nonetheless as the creature passes him. And it truly must be a clever beast, for the ekhidna slows immediately after it had realised it has missed him and rises up into the air once more, away from the reach of Geralt’s sword, fletching rows of jagged teeth as it glares down at him.   
For a moment, they stare at each other, until Geralt almost expects to see a flicker of consciousness within the ekhidna’s eyes, but then whips back its head and lets out a shriek so loud and shrill it would have stunned a human.

Although Geralt’s senses are far keener, he only loses a moment of time, even if the sound is so jarring it echoes in his head, momentarily drowning out the memories of Jaskier’s songs, the sound of his laughter; their loss is more painful than the ringing in his ears, but Geralt just grits his teeth and raises his sword once more, waiting for the phantom screams to die down.   
After all, this is a dance he has learnt the steps to long ago; the ekhidna snarls and snaps its tail, trying to goad him into charging, but Geralt stands his ground, unwavering, his eyes fixed on the creature’s hovering form.

Again, its tail whips forward, nothing but a taunt, then the ekhidna starts to move to the side, floating over the lake’s glittering surface, its strong, ragged wings stirring the air in which almost feels like a summer’s breeze against Geralt’s skin. It’s only the scent that breaks the illusion, the air foul with the smell of rotting fish and copper instead of juniper berries and dandelion.   
Although the space is limited, Geralt mirrors the creature’s movements as much as he can, taking a few steps aside until they are circling each other, neither letting the other out of their sight for even a moment. It’s a stalemate of sorts, but then the ekhidna snaps its jaws, leaning its weight forward once more, and Geralt’s nerves are pulled taut, his grip around the heft of his sword strong, and yet when the creature swoops down once more, his reaction comes too late.

It can’t be more than a moment he has missed and yet his blade only hits the spikes on the top of the ekhidna’s wing instead of its breast, bouncing off the tough scales and the bone just hidden underneath. But his ill-times blow gives the ekhidna an opening; it burrows one hand’s set of claws into Geralt’s breastplate, shredding leather and metal alike. The speed it possesses is enough to rip of his left pauldron, and even if the claws only graze Geralt’s flesh, it is a small consolation in a fight that is long before over. 

Now useless, the piece of armour falls to the ground behind him and Geralt curses under his breath as he whips around, just fast enough to see the ekhidna turn its body around mid-flight and bare its teeth. It hisses, clicking sharp claws together, then it swoops down again, but this time, Geralt is ready.   
His aim is true, his silver sword slicing through purple-grey scales as if they were fine silk, catching the creature in the middle of its breast and the wiry muscles of its arm. The blow drags a shriek from the ekhidna’s jaws, so hateful it seems to freeze time itself and turn the air around them cold as snow, but still it is not enough to ground the creature. As it pulls itself up into the sky once more, its body wallows, teetering for a few moments, but there is still fight left in its cursed frame. 

A breathless moment passes and the adrenaline rushing through Geralt’s body is so thick he can taste it; then the pain sets in. He hasn’t noticed it before, too focussed on trying to put an end to the creature in front of him, but while his sword may have found its target, so did the ekhidna’s claws. Geralt cannot look down and let it out of his sight, but he can feel the warmth of blood against his skin where the ekhidna’s tail has managed to tear through what was still left of his breastplate.   
It hurts, which matters little; what does is that it’s a stinging, searing kind of pain, indicating that this time, it hasn’t only been skin that has been ripped apart but muscle and sinew, but bone that has splintered under the sheer force of the attack.

All of a sudden, Geralt’s breath comes harder, the sword seems heavier in his grip and with his next exhale, a curse spills from Geralt’s lips. Given time, his bones will mend, and his flesh sew itself shut, but for now, Geralt’s ribs are cracked and his chest is torn open, his lungs trying desperately to ignore the pain and fill themselves with precious air.   
Both him and the ekhidna are fighting on borrowed time, the creature losing blood from the wound on its breast and the gash on its arm, but so is Geralt. He tries to steady himself, feet finding steady ground on their own volition, but the ekhidna doesn’t give him a moment to breathe, instead darts down within seconds, claws outstretched; they catch Geralt’s cheek as he doges the attack, slicing into the flesh, but Geralt retaliates by spinning around, his sword cleaving the creature’s arm straight off its body.

The ekhidna lets out a bloodcurdling scream, its wing whipping across Geralt’s head and disorienting him, giving the creature the moment it needs to pull itself up into the air once more. Blood is spurting from the stump of its arm and the ekhidna wails, the other arm for a second fluttering between the wound on its chest and the empty space where its limb is missing, and Geralt could feel sorry for it, had he the time to think at all.   
It must be getting desperate, there is no other explanation, because when it swoops down again, for the last time, the ekhidna’s intent is clearly only on hurting him, its body a flurry of motions, wings flapping, its single arm thrashing around to catch Geralt’s face, his throat. He parries it swiftly, slicing through the creature’s wing with ease until his sword hits bone, the blade getting stuck for just a second before separating it; the moment’s delay is all the ekhidna needs to lash out with its tail.

The reinforced end of it catches Geralt’s chest, tearing through the already tattered flesh, slicing through the leather of his armour down his stomach, and the force of the blow is enough to knock Geralt back, yanking his sword from the ekhidna’s maimed wing. His cracked ribs scream, the air leaving his lungs in a cut off groan, because the pain is too vast to curse any longer.   
Geralt can hardly manage to raise his sword again, his muscles protesting, sinews he would need having been split apart, but the adrenaline coursing through his body is enough to force his arms to cooperate. In front of him, the ekhidna is flailing, finally grounded, and Geralt knows it will only take one more blow to cleave its head off its shoulders, one blow for this to finally be over. 

The ekhidna hisses when Geralt drags his body closer, and he expects no more attack from it, not with the amount of blood it has already lost, the wounds in its breast and its wing and the hewn off arm, but the creature launches itself off the ground with its unharmed wing and its tail, a flash of fury and blood and violence.   
Geralt’s arms try to move before his head has caught up with them, whipping his sword around to block the attack, but then time slows, something scratches against his wrist, almost as soft as a lover’s touch, the air still smells like blood and sweat, but something else penetrates it, tart and fresh; Geralt smells the ranogrin in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, on the tips of his calloused fingers, all around them as they huddled together in the wild of Spikeroog for warmth and for each other’s company.   
It only costs him a moment, but it’s too much, or maybe just enough.

Instead of blocking the ekhidna’s attack, Geralt sinks the entire length of his blade into the creature’s stomach, an injury that will surely, finally kill it, but it comes at a hefty price. Instead of forcing them further apart, the blow brings them closer together, and Geralt doesn’t see, cannot parry the tail that shoots up from behind the ekhidna’s twitching frame, doesn’t have time to doge and no armour left to protect him.   
The sharp tail end buries itself in Geralt’s chest just as he tries to rip back his sword, the spikes on it slicing through his mangled flesh like butter, the force of the hit enough to shatter his ribs completely. Blood and torn flesh spray through the air, and as Geralt staggers back, having lost his grip on his sword, copper is the only thing he can still smell in the air.

_It's no sound that wakes Geralt, instead it’s the lack of it, a silence he has been dreading for decades. Jaskier is in his arms, limbs thin and his skin still warm where it is pressed against Geralt’s chest and his shoulder, but there is a pause between each of his breaths that hasn’t been there when they went to sleep that night, a delay between heartbeats that Geralt has come to know as well as his own. Not by much, it’s just a moment that doesn’t belong in between of them, but it’s enough to make dread rise in Geralt’s chest.  
This is not the first time it has happened, not the second, not the third, and there is a chance that Jaskier’s heartbeat will even out once more, find back to the rhythm that Geralt goes to sleep to, but the thought hardly helps. For one day it won’t, one day Geralt will have to listen to Jaskier’s breath fading and the thought terrifies him more than any monster could. _

_Careful not to disturb Jaskier too much, Geralt pushes himself up on his elbow, looking down onto the face he has loved for more than half a decade, and brushes his fingertips across Jaskier’s cheek.  
“Wake up, sweet”, he mutters and brushes a strand of fine white hair behind Jaskier’s ear, letting his fingers linger just for a moment.   
Usually, it would be enough to wake Jaskier, but a second passes, then another and nothing happens. Jaskier doesn’t stir, his breathing doesn’t pick up and his lashes don’t start to flutter, his lips don’t start to stretch into that smile Geralt has fallen in love with so long ago. He doesn’t move at all and Geralt forces the panic down to prevent it from drowning him; it’s nothing, just sleep, just a better dream than usual, which Jaskier doesn’t yet want to leave. _

_“Come, now”, Geralt says, a bit louder this time, and presses a kiss against Jaskier’s cheek, then his forehead, to rouse him, even as a quiet voice in the back of his mind starts whispering,_ what if _... “Don’t scare me like this, Jaskier.”  
He lets his lips linger just like his fingers before, waits for the twitch of muscles under paper-thin skin, a small yawn as Jaskier wakes, but there’s nothing, just the sound of Jaskier’s heart beating a little too slow, his lungs taking a bit too much time to draw a breath.   
Panic starts to claw at Geralt’s throat, makes his fingers tremble, and this time, he cannot swallow it down again, even if he tries, inhaling slowly to quell the burn of it. The only thing it does is put the pause between Jaskier’s breaths into even sharper contrast. _

_By now, after years of it, the fear is a well-known companion, a tightness in Geralt’s chest that seems destined to crush him, the sensation of suffocating even while he continues breathing. His heart speeds up until Geralt can feel it pound against his ribs as if it was trying to escape, the thrum of blood so loud in his ears it makes it difficult to think.  
Because the delay in Jaskier’s breath seems longer now, just by a fraction of a second, not noticeable unless you look for it. And Geralt has been looking for a decade at least. _

_“Jaskier”, he tries again, not able to keep the fear out of his voice any longer, the frantic beating of his own heart so loud it almost drowns out Jaskier’s. “Please wake up, love. Wake up.”  
He gives Jaskier a few moments to react, but there’s nothing, and something within Geralt breaks and spills, threatens to overpower him for a moment. It’s every sob he has swallowed down while watching Jaskier try and remember a line of his own songs, every bolt of pain shooting through his heart he ignored while helping Jaskier down the stairs or out into the garden, every tear he didn’t cry because he didn’t want it to taint the time they still had together. It’s every moment he loved Jaskier and knew he’d lose him, every time he pushed the thought aside, so he’d be able to continue breathing in time with the other, return each smile, each kiss, each whispered confession. _

_They flood him, leave him gasping and it’s too much, breaks his back and his heart and his spirit, leaves Geralt’s mind reeling, every sense finding a single focus. Jaskier’s heart is slowing, Geralt can hear it clearly now, every beat of it a little later, and it’s too much, too much_ , too much _.  
He has no control over his body left, but his hands pull Jaskier up against his chest, cradling him close, until his fading heart beats right against Geralt’s.   
Jaskier’s hair tickles his cheeks, and Geralt feels himself shiver with a half-suppressed sob, buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and smells fresh sweat and fool’s parsley and ranogrin, feels their first and their hundredth and their millionth kiss. _

_Sees Jaskier on that very first day, blue eyes wide and hopeful; sees him at Cintra’s court, shining gold and silver and brighter than anything else Geralt had ever seen; sees him on that dreaded mountain, talking about the coast and pretending that being rejected does not hurt; sees him in the tavern Geralt found him in so much later, forgiveness painted across his dear features and mending Geralt’s heart with a smile; sees Jaskier offering his own heart to him, unabashed and unashamed, braver than any other man Geralt had ever seen; sees him in a thousand nights, on a thousand beds, in front of a thousand fires; sees Jaskier in their cabaret on stage and behind the bar and on tables, singing and joking and drinking, winking at Geralt when he caught his gaze; sees him in their house, in their garden, weaving buttercups into Ciri’s hair and Roach’s mane, humming softly under his breath, unaware that Geralt could still hear him; sees Jaskier waving when Geralt set out for a hunt, his whispered words of_ come home to me _still echoing in Geralt’s head; sees Jaskier offering his heart once more when he had realised it would break Geralt, asking the impossible of him and being granted everything, the least he deserved; sees Jaskier that evening, wincing when Geralt helped him into their bed but smiling softly into the kiss Geralt pressed to his lips before they went to sleep.  
Sees their life, all of it, the good and the bad and the mediocre, sees Jaskier and finds that even after trying to prepare for this for decades, he still is no step closer to knowing how to live without him. _  
  


There’s dirt caked under his fingernails from dragging his body across the lake’s shore when Geralt leans against the tree, the bark scratching the exposed skin where the ehkidna has ripped apart his armour, but the solid pressure is slightly comforting still. He’s dimly aware that he’s in pain, his chest torn open by claws and the creature’s powerful tail, his ribs broken and splintered, but the fact doesn’t properly register in his brain any longer, adrenaline washing away the side effects of the fight. It turns the pain into water that keeps running through Geralt’s cupped hands, just like the pressure on his lungs that makes it impossible to draw a proper breath, just like the constant stream of blood that slicks up the leather of his armour, the heaviness of his limbs. Even without seeing it, Geralt knows that it’s bad; yet, even without seeing it, he knows that he’s sustained far worse injuries in the past.

His armour is in tatters, beyond repair, but Geralt’s belt is still heavy against his hip, the small pouch he carries his potions in untouched, and even if every motion sends a shockwave of pain through him, Geralt slides his hand across his body to reach it. His blood-slick fingers find the clasp and undo it, drawing a groan from behind Geralt’s lips that sounds raspy, breathless even to his own ears. The vials inside are still intact as Geralt pulls them out, bringing his hand up to his face to see their contents and leaving red smears across the glass, the cork stopper.   
Cat, White Honey, Golden Oriole, all the potions he knows he carries, but Geralt’s eyes keep searching for the one thing he needs, because it’s not poisons that are making his head swim and his thoughts slow, it’s not the night that is making it difficult to see, but the loss of blood.   
There’s no Swallow.

It makes no sense at first, for long, long moments, until Geralt lets his hand sink down onto his stomach, unable to keep it raised any longer, until his eyes become heavy with the strain of keeping them open. And then it does.   
Geralt remembers the warmth of his room at the inn, remembers the scratch of needles and the familiar smell of them, the call of a time long past. Remembers the ingredients he packed into his bag this morning, unused, the phantom weight of Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him back into bed. Bram’s face as he ripped Jaskier’s sketch of Eskel out of the notebook for him and Judet’s wistfulness as she promised Geralt that she’d remember them forever.   
He won’t be there to find out if she does.

His fingers loosen their grip on the other vials, letting them tumble to the floor where they break, or maybe stay intact, Geralt doesn’t know, because it doesn’t matter any longer, nothing does.   
It’s the strangest thought, and yet the one that still rings through his congealing, dimming mind; it seems that there is no clarity in death, but Geralt cannot bring himself to mind. His heart is slowing down and every breath he takes allows less oxygen into his veins than the one before, a sure sign of a punctured lung, and Geralt knows he is going to die here.

It’s almost impossible to consider after such a long time, sixty-four years after making a promise he never thought he would be able to keep, and yet Geralt can feel it, his limbs going numb and his eyelids becoming heavier, his breath picking up, each inhale accompanied by a rattling in his chest, a pitiful whistling as the air rushes back out of his lungs.   
He’s dying and he knows the sensation well enough by now, knows that without the potion he never brewed, this will be the last time he has to go through it.

Despite the muted pain, the lack of air, Geralt feels laughter bubbling up from his chest, the sound of it twisted and distorted, but floating from his lips anyway, bringing the taste of blood and freedom with it.   
He’ll die here, bleed out in a town that Jaskier and he used to travel through without giving it a second thought, and there is poetry in there somewhere, Geralt knows it, but with his fighter’s mind, he doesn’t know where to look for it.   
Jaskier would know, would brush Geralt’s hair from his forehead and press a kiss to his lips, would know just what words to whisper to turn dying into something more, something worth remembering. Like this, it’s just dying, just every beat of his heart being weaker than the one before. And it’s fitting, because what was left of poetry in Geralt’s life died with Jaskier in his arms.

It’s hard to keep his eyes open, so Geralt allows them to close, only realising he’ll never see the sky again after it’s gone; it doesn’t seem to matter.   
The darkness is kind and warm, feels like blood gushing down his body and like lazy mornings spent in bed, cocooned in their covers, and Geralt thinks of Ciri. She’ll be fine, he knows it, and even if he knows it will be hard on her, she has family left in Triss and Yen and Eskel and sometimes, even Lambert, she has friends and a horse she called Buttercup and pretended she didn’t notice it when Geralt’s eyes misted over at the sound of the name. And she’s a good Witcher, better than that even, and unlike Geralt she still has a heart left to be broken, if she ever wants to gift it to someone.   
He thinks of watching her grow up and training her and watching her become who she wanted to be instead of following another’s footsteps, thinks of how much he loves her, even if there were years in which he would had done everything in his power to never have her within his sight.   
He thinks of Yennefer and Triss, of how they will miss him even if Geralt is certain they’ll know that he was just biding his time, thinks of Lambert and Eskel, who are as close as he could get to having brothers, and how most likely neither of them expected that he’d be the first of them to go.

Moving is near impossible by now, cold having started to seep into his limbs, the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet, but Geralt forces his hand across his body anyway, until he can grip his glove with the other, tugging it off with the last bit of strength he has left.   
The air around him smells like blood and dirt, like death, but suddenly, there’s a tartness mixing in between, a scent that smells like coming home. Geralt breathes in as deep as he can, his chest rattling with the exertion, but the hint of ranogrin on his lips makes it worth it.

And Geralt thinks of Jaskier, of his smiles and his eyes and his voice; of his little touches that meant nothing but _I am here, I won’t leave_ ; of his hair turning silver but remaining just as soft and his clothes that stayed vibrant all his life; of the way Jaskier’s voice would go softer by just a bit every time he said Geralt’s name.   
He’s fading and Geralt has never been optimistic enough to believe in an afterlife, but that’s alright; he’ll gladly lose himself in the darkness, if it’s the same one that took Jaskier too.

Again, he breathes in, his chest hardly moving, but there is a breeze coming from the lake, light and warm, carrying the scent of ranogrin, and just for a moment, Geralt believes he can feel a weight on the back of his hand. Hear a voice next to him, calm and loving and familiar.   
_Come home to me, darling, come home._

He does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I really loved writing this, as sad as it turned out to be, but I hope that the ending was as strangely cathartic for you as it was for me.   
> Thank you all so much for the kind comments, I really appreciated them a lot ♥♥♥

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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